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FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM  TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


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GS  OF  THE  PILG 


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WITH   AN   INTRODUCTION   BY 


REV.  H.  M.  DEXTER,  D.D. 


They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert' 's  gloom 
With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 


EDITED  BY   M.  D.   BISBEE. 


BOSTON  AND   CHICAGO : 
(Congregational  SunDag=5cf)Ool  ano  ^ubltsfjing  $orietg» 


Copyright.  1887,  by 
Congregational  Sunday-School  and  Publishing  Society. 


Electrotyped  and  Printed  by 
Stanley  t£-  Usher,  111  Devonshire  Street,  Boston,  Mass. 


PREFACE. 


My  Dear  Mb  .  Bisbee  :  — 

You  ask  me  to  preface,  by  a  few  words,  your 
collection  of  Pilgrim  verses.  I  am  glad  you  have 
gathered  them  together,  and  I  Tiope  you  will 
publish  them.  Some  of  them  may  be  no  great 
things  looked  at  simply  as  fruits  of  the  Muse, 
but  they  are  all  wholesome  and  well  meant. 
Without  exception,  they  hare  a  good,  strong, 
healthy  savor, — like  opening  a  drawer  where 
thyme  and  other  aromatics  have  been  drying; 
and  some  of  them  have  the  rhythm  of  sweet 
music  in  them.  Taken  together,  they  are 
eminently  worthy  of  preservation,  as  the  most 
distinctively  Xew  England,  of  any  collection 
of  odes,  songs,  ballads,  or  whatever,  which 
could  be  made.  They  all  deserve  kindly 
remembrance  and  a  good  place  in  our  history, 
as  some  of  them  do  in  our  poetry. 
With  sincere  affection, 

Faithfully  yours, 

HEXEY  MARTYR  DEXTEE. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Preface.     H.  31.  Dexter  « 3 

Arrival  at  Cape  Cod.     Bradford' s  account 9 

That  Gray,  Cold  Christmas  Day.     Hezekiah 

Butterworth 13 

Kobinson  OF  Leyden.     0.  W.  Holmes 16 

The  Embarkation.    Lizzie  Doten 19 

Forefathers'  Day.    M.  W.  Chapman 23 

The  Liberty  Song.     Dickinson  and  Lee 24 

The  Mayflower.    I.  N.  Tarbox 27 

Plymouth  and  the  Bay.    /.  N.  Tarbox 30 

The  Pilgrims.    Mrs.  Sigourney 32 

Hymn.     George  Bussell 35 

Clark's  Island.    Hersey  B.  Goodwin 37 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers.    Ebenezer  Elliot 38 

Forefathers'  Day.    A.  L.  Stone 40 

Song.    Alexander  Scammel 44 

A  Fragment.    Anne  Bradstreet  45 

Hymn.  -   Mather  Byles 46 

Monday,  11-21  December,  1620.     H.  M.  Dexter  47 

From  '-The  Present  Crisis."     J.  B.Lowell  ..  53 

Ode.     Grenville  Mellcn 55 

Hymn.    Anonymous 58 

Ode  for  the  22d  of  December,    John  Davis  .  60 


vi  Contents. 

Hymn    for   the    22d    of    December.       John 

Quincy  Adams 63 

From  "The  Present  Crisis."      J.  B.  Lowell..  61 
Hymn  for  the  22d  of  December,  1709.    Anon- 
ymous    60 

An  Ode.    F.  B 67 

The  Pilgrims.    H.  W.  Longfellow 69 

The  Sainted  Sires.    Anonymous 70 

From  "An  Interview  with  Miles  Standish." 

J.  B.  Lowell 71 

From  "  Biglow  Papers."    J.  B.  Lowell 72 

Hymn.     Abiel  Holmes 73 

SONG.     Thomas  Greene  Fessenclen 7-4 

From  "  Biglow  Papers."    J.  B.  Lowell 76 

Song,  December  22,  1807.    JosephWarren  Bracket  77 
From   "The   Courtship  of  Miles  Standish." 

H.  W.  Longfellow 81 

On  Her  Mother.     Anne  Bradstreet 93 

Two  Hundred  Years  Ago.    James  Flint 94 

Anniversary  Stanzas.    Anonymous 97 

Albany  Hymn,  1S20.     Anonymous 09 

Ode  for  22d  December.     Samuel  Davis 100 

Albany  Hymn,  1S20.    Anonymous 102 

Haverhill  Hymn,  1820.    Anonymous 103 

A  Fragment.    J.  B.  Lowell 101 

The  First  Thanksgiving.    /.  JSf.  Tarbox 105 

The  First  Thanksgiving  Day.     Margaret  J. 

Freston 108 

Ode.    John  Pierpont 112 


Contents.  vii 

Hymn.     William  P.  Lunt 114 

The  Twenty-second  of  December.     William 

Cullen  Bryant 116 

Original  Hymn.     Thaddeus  Mason  Harris 117 

The  Price  op  a  Little  Pilgrim.    Margaret 

J.  Preston    118 

The    Landing    of    the   Pilgrim   Fathers. 

Felicia  Hemans .* 121 

New  England.    J.  G.  Percival 123 

The  First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Stand- 

ish.     Margaret  J.  Preston 125 

The  Pilgrims'  Day.    Anonymous 128 

Ode.    Bufus  Dawes 129 

The   Pilgrim   Fathers  :    an    Ode.      Charles 

Sprague 132 

The  Pilgrim  Mothers.    E.  W.  Bobbins 13(3 

Song  of  the  Pilgrims.     T.  C.  Upham 141 

The  Mayflower.    Lord  Houghton 142 

Hymn.     Samuel  Deane   144 

St.  Botolph's  Chimes.    Margaret  J.  Preston..  145 

Anniversary  Hymn.     William  S.  Bussell 148 

The  Men  of  Plymouth.     William  B.  Tappan.  149 

For  Forefathers'  Day.    Leonard  Bacon 150 

Ode.     Samuel  Oilman 151 

Burial  Hill.    John  Milton  Holmes 153 

The  Pilgrim's  Vision.     Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  154 

Hymn  for  22d  December.    Anonymous  160 

Burial  Hill.    Bay  Palmer 161 

The  Mayflower.    John  G.  Whittier 162 


viii  Contents. 

Fast  Day  Sport.     Margaret  J.  Preston .  164 

The  Puritan  Maiden's  May-day.    Margaret 

J.  Preston 167 

Forefathers'  Day.    I.  N.  Tarbox 169 

The  Pilgrims.     Sylvia  Brown 177 

Memory  of  our  Fathers.    Flint 179 

The  Mayflower  on  New  England's  Coast. 

Charles  Hall  180 

Memorial  Hymn.     Bay  Palmer 182 

Forefathers'  Day.    John  D.  Long 181 

Hymn    for    21    December,    1870.       Nathaniel 

Spooner 186 

HYMN.     William  T.  IJavis 187 

Dedication   of   Hitchcock  Library.    1.  N. 

Tarbox 188 

The  Boys'  Redoubt.     Margaret  J.  Preston 390 

Forefathers'  Day.    Albert  Bryant 193 

The  Spirit  of  Forefathers'  Day.    Annie  A. 

Preston 194 

Our  Fathers.    7.  N.  Tarbox 1 97 

Forefathers'  Day,  18S3.    Bay  Palmer 198 

Forefathers'  Day.    I.  N.  Tarbox 203 

The  Pilgrim  Forefathers.    II.  II. 204 

December  21st,  1620-1870.    I.  N.  Tarbox 207 

Elder  Fauncb  at  Plymouth   Hock.     Caro- 
line Frances  Orne 211 

First   Landing    of    the   Pilgrims.      Robert 

Southey 214 


ARRIVAL  AT   CAPE   COD. 

WILLIAM    BRADFORD'S    ACCOUNT. 

BEING  thus  arrived  in  a  good  harbor  and  brought  safe 
to  land,  they  fell  upon  their  knees  &  blessed  ye  God 
of  heaven,  who  had  brought  them  over  ye  vast  «fc 
furious  ocean,  and  delivered  them  from  ye  periles  &  miser- 
ies thereof,  againe  to  set  their  feete  on  ye  firme  &  stable 
earth,  their  proper  elemente.  And  no  marvell  if  they  were 
thus  joyefull,  seeing  wise  Seneca  was  so  affected  with  sail- 
ing a  few  miles  on  ye  coast  of  his  owne  Italy;  as  he 
affirmed,  that  he  had  rather  remaine  twentie  years  on  his 
way  by  land,  than  pass  by  sea  to  any  place  in  a  short  time ; 
so  tedious  &  dreadfull  was  ye  same  unto  him. 

But  hear  I  can  not  but  stay  and  make  a  pause  and  stand 
half  amasedat  this  poore  peoples  presente condition;  and  so 
I  thinke  will  the  reader  too,  when  he  well  considers  ye  same. 
Being  thus  passed  ye  vast  ocean,  and  a  sea  of  troubles 
before  in  their  preparation  (as  may  be  remembered  by  yt 
which  wente  before),  they  had  now  no  friends  to  wellcome 
them,  nor  inns  to  entertaine  or  refresh  their  weatherbeaten 
bodys,  no  houses,  or  much  less  townes  to  repaire  too,  to 
seeke  for  succoure.  It  is  recorded  in  Scripture  as  a  mercie 
to  ye  apostle  &  his  shipwrecked  company,  yt  the  barbarians 
shewed  them  no  smale  kindnes  in  refreshing  them,  but 
those  savage  barbarians,  wThen  they  mette  with  them  (as 
after  will  appeare)  were  readier  to  fill  their  sides  full  of 
arrows  than  otherwise.  And  for  ye  season,  it  was  winter, 
and  they  that  know  ye  winters  of  yt  countrie  know  them 


10  Arrival  at  Cape  Cod. 

to  be  sharp  &  violent  &  subject  to  cruel  &  fierce  storms, 
deangerous  to  travill  to  known  places,  but  much  more  to 
serch  an  unknown  coast.  Besids,  what  could  they  see  but 
a  hidious  &  desolate  wildernes  full  of  wild  beasts  it  wild 
men?  and  what  multituds  ther  might  be  of  them  they 
knew  not.  Neither  could  they,  as  it  were,  goe  up  to  ye 
tope  of  Pisgah,  to  vew  from  this  wildernes  a  more  goodly 
cuntrie  to  feed  their  hops;  for  which  way  soever  they 
turned  their  eys  (save  upward  to  ye  heavens)  they  could 
have  little  solace  or  content  in  respecte  to  any  outward 
objects.  For  sumer  being  done,  all  things  stand  upon  them 
with  a  weatherbeaten  face;  and  ye  whole  cuntrie,  full  of 
woods  &  thickets,  represented  a  wild  &  savage  view.  If 
they  looked  behind  them,  ther  was  ye  mighty  ocean  which 
they  had  passed,  and  was  now  as  maine  barr  and  goulfe  to 
separate  them  from  all  ye  civill  parts  of  ye  world.  If  it  be 
said  they  had  a  ship  to  succoure  them,  it  is  trew,  but  what 
heard  they  daly  from  ye  Mr  &  company?  but  yt  with  Speade 
they  should  looke  out  a  place  with  their  shallop,  wher  they 
would  be  at  some  neare  distance,  for  ye  season  was  shuch, 
as  he  would  not  stirr  from  thence  till  a  safe  harbor  was  dis- 
covered by  them  wher  they  would,  and  he  might  goe  with- 
out danger;  and  that  victells  consumed  apace,  but  he  must 
&  would  keep  sufficient  for  them  selves  &  their  returne. 
Yea,  it  was  muttered  by  some  that  if  they  gott  not  a  place 
in  time,  they  would  turne  them  &and  their  goods  ashore  & 
leave  them. 

Let  it  also  be  considred  what  weake  hopes  of  supply  & 
succoure  they  left  behind  them  yt  might  bear  up  their 
minds  in  this  sade  condition  and  trialls  they  were  under; 
and  they  could  not  but  be  very  smale.  It  is  true  indeed,  in- 
deed ye  affections  &  love  of  their  brethren  at  Leyden  was 


Arrival  at  Cape  Cod.  11 

cordiall  &  entire  towards  them,  b.ut  they  had  little  power  to 
help  them,  or  them  selves;  and  how  ye  case  stode  betweene 
them  &  ye  marchants  at  their  coming  away,  hath  already 
been  declared.  "What  could  now  sustaine  them  but  ye 
spirite  of  God  it  his  grace?  May  not  and  ought  not  the 
children  of  those  fathers  rightly  say:  Our  faithers  were 
Englishmen  which  came  over  this  great  ocean,  and  were 
ready  to  perish  in  this  wilderness,  hut  .they  cried,  unto  ye 
Lord,  and  he  heard  their  voyce  and  looked  on  their 
adversitee. 


SONGS   OF  THE   PILGRIMS. 


THAT    GRAY,    COLD    CHRISTMAS    DAY. 

December  25,   1620. 

n^HEY  sailed  away  from  Provincetown  Bay 

In  the  fireless  light  of  the  sun, 
And  they  came  at  night  to  a  havened  height, 

And  the  journey  at  last  was  done. 
With  rain  and  sleet  were  the  tall  masts  iced, 

And  frosty  and  dark  was  the  air, 
But  they  looked  from  the  crystal  sails  to  Christ 
As  they  moored  in  the  harbor  fair. 
The  sky  was  cold  and  gray, 

And  there  were  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 
No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
That  gray,  cold  winter  day. 

The  snow  came  down  on  the  vacant  seas 
And  deep  on  the  lone  rocks  lay ; 


14  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

But  their  axes  rung  'mid  the  evergreen-trees, 

And  followed  the  Sabbath  day. 
The  Christmas  came,  in  a  crimson  haze, 

And  the  workmen  said  at  dawn : 
"  Shall  our  axes  swing  on  this  day  of  days 
When  the  Lord  of  Light  was  born  ?  " 
The  sky  was  cold  and  gray, 

And  there  were  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 
No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
That  gray,  cold  Christmas  day. 

"The  old  towns'  bells  we  seem  to  hear, 

They  are  ringing  sweet  on  the  Dee  : 
They  are  ringing  sweet  on  the  Haerlem  Meer, 

And  sweet  on  the  Zuyder  Zee. 
The  pines  are  frosted  with  snow  and  sleet : 

Shall  we  our  axes  wield, 
When  the  bells  of  Lincoln  are  ringing  sweet 
And  the  bells  of  Austerfield  ?  " 
The  sky  was  cold  and  gray, 

And  there  were  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 
No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
That  gray,  cold  Christmas  day. 


That  Gray,  Cold  Christmas  Day.  15 

Then  the  master  said  :  ' '  Your  axes  wield  ; 

Remember  ye  Malabarre  Bay, 
And  the  covenant  there  with  the  Lord  ye  sealed  ; 

Let  your  axes  ring  to-day. 
You  may  talk  of  the  old  towns'  bells  to-night, 

When  your  work  for  the  Lord  is  elone  ; 
And  your  boats  return,  and  the  shallops  light 
Shall  follow  the  light  of  the  sun. 
The  sky  is  cold  and  gray, 

And  here  are  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 
No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
This  gray,  cold  Christmas  day. 

"  If  the  Lord  was  born  on  Christmas  day, 

And  the  day  of  him  is  blest, 
Then  low  at  his  feet  the  evergreens  lay, 

And  cradle  his  Church  in  the  West. 
Immanuel  waits  at  the  temple  gates 

Of  the  nation  to-day  ye  found, 
And  the  Lord  delights  in  no  empty  rites  — 
To-day  let  your  axes  sound  !  " 
The  sky  was  cold  and  gray, 

And  there  were  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 


16  JSongs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
That  gray,  cold  Christmas  day. 

Their  axes  rung  through  the  evergreen-trees, 

Like  the  bells  on  the  Thames  and  Tay, 
And  they  cheering  sang  by  the  windy  seas, 

And  they  thought  of  Malabarre  Bay. 
On  the  lonely  heights  of  Burial  Hill 

The  old  Precisioners  sleep, 
But  did  ever  men  with  a  nobler  will 
A  goodlier  Christmas  keep  — 
When  sky  was  cold  and  gray, 

And  there  were  no  ancient  bells  to  ring, 
No  priests  to  chant,  no  choirs  to  sing, 
No  chapel  of  baron,  lord,  or  king, 
That  gray,  cold  Christmas  clay? 

—  Hezekiah  Buttenoorth. 


ROBINSON   OF   LEYDEN. 

~T    f~E  sleeps  not  here  ;  in  hope  and  prayer 
-■ — *-     His  wandering  flock  had  gone  before, 
But  he,  the  shepherd,  might  not  share 
Their  sorrows  on  the  wintry  shore. 


Robinson  of  Ley  den.  17 

Before  the  Speedwell's  anchor  swung, 
Ere  yet  the  Mayflower's  sail  was  spread, 

While  round  his  feet  the  Pilgrims  clung, 
The  pastor  spake,  and  thus  he  said : 

"Men,  brethren,  sisters,  children  dear, 
God  calls  you  hence  from  over  sea ; 
Ye  may  not  build  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
"Nor  vet  along;  the  Zuvder  Zee. 


'D 


Ye  go  to  bear  the  saving  word 

To  tribes  unnamed  and  shores  untrod  ; 

Heed  well  the  lessons  ye  have  heard 
From  those  old  teachers  taught  of  God. 


»j 


Yet  think  not  unto  them  was  lent 
All  light  for  all  the  coming  days, 

And  heaven's  eternal  wisdom  spent 
In  making  straight  the  ancient  ways. 

The  living  fountain  overflows 
For  every  flock,  for  every  lamb. 

Nor  heeds,  though  angry  creeds  oppose 
With  Luther's  dike  or  Calvin's  dam." 

He  spake  ;  with  lingering,  long  embrace, 
With  tears  of  love  and  partings  fond, 


18  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

They  floated  down  the  creeping  Maas, 
Along  the  Isle  of  Ysselmond. 

They  passed  the  frowning  towers  of  Briel, 
The  "Hook  of  Holland's"  shelf  of  sand, 

And  grated  soon  with  lifting  keel 
The  sullen  shores  of  fatherland. 

No  home  for  these  !     Too  well  they  knew 
The  mitred  king  behind  the  throne  ; 

The  sails  were  set,  the  pennons  flew, 

And  westward  ho  !  for  worlds  unknown. 

And  these  were  they  who  gave  us  birth, 
The  Pilgrims  of  the  sunset  wave, 

Who  won  for  ns  this  virgin  earth, 
And  freedom  with  the  soil  they  gave. 

The  pastor  slumbers  by  the  Rhine,  — 

In  alien  earth  the  exiles  lie,  — 
Their  nameless  graves  our  holiest  shrine, 

His  words  our  noblest  battle-cry  ! 

Still  cry  them,  and  the  world  shall  hear, 
Ye  dwellers  by  the  storm-swept  sea ! 

Ye  have  not  built  by  Haerlem  Meer, 
Nor  on  the  land-locked  Zuyder  Zee  ! 

—  0.  W.  Holmes. 


T 


The  Embarkation.  19 


THE   EMBARKATION. 

IE   baud  of  Pilgrim  exiles  in  tearful  silence 
stood, 
While  thus  outspake,  in  parting,  John  Robinson 

the  good  : 
"Fare   thee   well,    my   brave    Miles    Standish ! 

Thou  hast  a  trusty  sword ; 
But  not  with  carnal  weapons  shalt  thou  glorif}^ 

the  Lord. 
Fare  thee  well,  good  Elder  Brewster  !     Thou  art 

a  man  of  prayer  ; 
Commend  the  flock  I  give  thee  to  the  Holy  Shep- 
herd's care. 
And  thou,  beloved  Carver!  — what    shall  I  say 

to  thee  ? 
I  need,   in  this  my  sorrow,  that  thou   shouldst 

comfort  me. 
In  the  furnace  of  affliction  must  all  be  sharply 

tried ; 
But  nought  prevails  against  us,  if  the  Lord  be 

on  our  side. 
Farewell,  farewell,  my  people  !      Go,  and  stay 

not  the  hand, 


20  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

But  precious  seed  of  freedom  sow  ye  broadcast 

through  the  laud. 
Ye  may  scatter  it  in  sorrow,  and  water  it  with 

tears, 
But  rejoice  for  those   who  gather   the    fruit    in 

after  years  ; 
Ay  !    rejoice  that  ye  may  leave   them    an    altar 

unto  God, 
On  the  holy  soil  of  freedom,  where  no  tyrant's 

foot  hath  trod. 
All  honor  to  our   sovereign,    his    majesty    King 

James, 
But   the   King  of  kings    above   us   the    highest 

homage  claims." 
Upon  the  deck  together  they  knelt  them   down 

and  prayed, — 
The  husband  and  the  father,  the  matron  and  the 

maid  ; 
The  broad  blue  heavens  above  them,  bright  with 

the  summer's  glow, 
And  the  wide,  wide  waste  of   waters,    with   its 

treacherous  waves  below  ; 
Around,  the  loved   and   cherished,    whom   they 

should  see  no  more, 
And  the  dark,  uncertain  future  stretching  dimly 

on  before. 


The  Embarkation.  21 

Oh,  well  might  Edward  Winslow  look  sadly  on 

his  bride  ! 
Oh,  well  might  fair  Rose  Standish  press  to  her 

chieftain's  side  ! 
For   with   crucified  affections    they    bowed    the 

knee  in  prayer, 
And  besought  that  God  would  aid  them  to  suffer 

aud  to  bear ; 
To  bear  the  cross  of  sorrow  —  a  broader  shield 

of  love 
Than  the  royal  cross  of  England,  that  proudly 

waved  above. 
The  balmy  winds  of  summer  swept  o'er  the  glit- 
tering seas  ; 
It  brought  the  sign  of  parting,  —  the  white  sails 

met  the  breeze  ; 
One    farewell   gush    of    sorrow,    one    prayerful 

blessing  more, 
And  the  bark  that  bore  the  exiles  glided  slowly 

from  the  shore. 
Thus  they  left  that  goodly  city,  o'er  stormy  seas 

to  roam, 
But  they  knew  that  they  were  pilgrims,  and  this 

world  was  not  their  home. 


22  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

There  is  a-  God  in  heaven,  whose  purpose  none 

may  tell ; 
There  is  a  God  in  heaven  who  doeth  all  things 

well. 
And  thus  an  infant  nation  was  cradled  on    the 

deep, 
While  hosts  of  holy  angels  were  set  to  guard  its 

sleep ; 
No  seer,  no  priest  or  prophet,  read  its  horoscope 

at  birth, 
No  bard  in   solemn   Saga   sung   its   destiny   to 

earth ; 
But  slowly,  slowly,  slowly  as  the  acorn  from  the 

sod, 
It  grew  in  strength  and  grandeur,  and  spread  its 

arms  abroad. 
The  eyes  of  distant  nations  turned  toward  that 

goodly  tree, 
And  they  saw  how  fair  and  pleasant  were   the 

fruits  of  liberty! 
Like  earth's  convulsive  motion  before  the  earth- 
quake's shock, 
Like  the  foaming  of  the  ocean  around  old  Ply- 
mouth Rock, 
So  the  deathless  love  of  freedom,  of  the  majesty 

of  right, 


Forefathers'  Day.  23 

In  all  kindred  and  all  nations,  is  rising   in    its 
might ; 

And  words  of  solemn  warning   come    from    the 
honored  dead, — 

AVoe,  woe  to  the  oppressor  if  righteous  blood  be 
shed ! 

Rush  not  blindly  on  the  future  !     Heed  the  les- 
sons of  the  past ! 

For  the  feeble  and  the  faithful  are  the  conquer- 
ors at  last. 

—  Lizzie  Doten. 


FOREFATHERS'   DAY. 

r  I  iHE  memory  of  the  faithful  dead 
-*-      Be  on  their  children's  hearts  this  day  ! 
Your  fathers'  God,  their  hosts  that  led, 
Will  shield  you  through  the  stormy  way. 

Your  Saviour  bids  you  seek  and  save 

The  trampled  and  the  oppressed  of  earth ; 

At  his  command  the  storm  to  brave, 
Faithful  and  true,  come  boldly  forth ! 


24  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Their  suffering  though  your  souls  must  share, 
Though  pride  oppress  and  hate  condemn, 

Stand  up  !  and  breathe  your  fearless  prayer 
For  those  in  bonds  as  bound  with  them  ! 

Unheeded  falls  the  fierce  command 

That  bids  the  struggling  soul  be  dumb  ! 

Shout  with  a  voice  to  rouse  a  land  ! 
Bid  the  free  martyr  spirit  come  ! 

Searcher  of  hearts,  to  thee  we  bow,  — 

Uphold  us  with  thy  staff  and  rod  ; 
Our  fervent  hearts  are  ready  now,  — 

We  come  to  do  thy  will,  O  God  ! 

—  M.    W.   Chapman. 


THE   LIBERTY   SONG.1 

Tune  :  Hearts  of  Oak. 

C10ME,  join  hand  and  hand,  brave  Americans 
'     all, 
And  rouse  your  bold  hearts  at  fair  Liberty's  call ; 
No  tyrannous  acts  shall  suppress  your  just  claim, 
Or  stain  with  dishonor  America's  name. 
1  Sung  at  the  first  celebration  of  the  landing  at  Plymouth,  17(39. 


The  Liberty  Song.  25 

CHORUS. 

In  freedom  we  're  born,  and  in   freedom  we  '11 
live  ; 

Our  purses  are  ready, 
Steady,  friends,  steady, 
Not  as  slaves,  but  as  freemen,  our  money  we  '11 
give. 

Our    worthy    Forefathers  —  let  's    give    'em    a 

cheer !  — 
To  climates  unknown  did  courageously  steer  ; 
Through   oceans    to    deserts   for    freedom    they 

came, 
Aud  dyiug,  bequeathed  us   their   freedom   and 

fame. 

Their  generous  bosoms  all  danger  despised, 
So  highly,  so  wisely,  their  birthright  they  prized  ; 
We  '11  keep  what  they  gave  —  we  will  piously  keep, 
Nor  frustrate  their  toils  on  the  land  or  the  deep. 

The  Tree  their  own  hands  had  to  liberty  reared, 
They  lived  to  behold  growing  strong  and  revered  ; 
With  transport  they  cried  :  u  Now  our  wishes  we 

gain, 
For  our  children  shall  gather  the  fruits  of  our 

pain." 


26  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

How  sweet"  are  the  labors  that  freemen  endure, 
That  they  shall  enjoy  all  the  profits  secure. 
No  more  such  sweet  labors  Americans  know, 
If  Britons  shall  reap  what  Americans  sow. 

Swarms  of    placemen  and  pensioners  soon  will 

appear, 
Like  locusts  deforming  the  charms  of  the  year ; 
Suns  vainly  will  rise,  showers  vainly  descend, 
Jf  we  are  to  drudge  for  what  others  shall  spend. 

Then  join  hand  in  hand,  brave  Americans  all ; 
By  uniting  we  stand,  by  dividing  we  fall ; 
In  so  righteous  a  cause  let  us  hope  to  succeed. 
For  heaven  approves  of  each  generous  deed. 

All  ages  shall  speak  with  amaze  and  applause 
Of   the  courage  we  '11  show  in  support  of    our 

laws  ; 
To  die  we  can  bear,  but  to  serve  we  disdain  ; 
For  shame  is  to  freemen  more  dreadful  than  pain. 

This  bumper  I  crown  for  our  Sovereign's  health, 
And  this  for  Britannia's  glory  and  wealth ; 
That  wealth  and  that  glory  immortal  may  be, 
If  she  is  but  just,  and  we  are  but  free. 

—  Hon.  John  Dickinson,  Delaware,  and 
Dr.  Arthur  Lee,  Virginia. 


The  Mayflower.  27 


THE   MAYFLOWER. 

TZTOW  clar'st  thou  try  this  stormy  path, 
J —       Thou  frail  and  struggling  bark  ! 
Old  England's  shores  are  shut  from  sight 

Amid  the  gathering  dark. 
The  friends  who  waved  their  sad  adieu 

Have  homeward  gone  to  weep, 
And  thou  art  left,  a  lonely  waif, 

Upon  the  boundless  deep. 

Night  closes  round  thy  little  group 

Of  aching,  homesick  hearts, 
That  strive  to  hide  the  thoughts  which  rise, 

And  quench  the  tear  that  starts  ; 
But  hard  it  is,  on  wings  of  faith, 

To  mount  o'er  present  fears, 
And  see  the  glory  that  may  break 

Around  the  distant  years. 

Yet  sail  thou  on,  thou  shalt  not  fail 

To  reach  yon  waiting  shores  ; 
Thou  earnest  treasures  costlier  far 

Than  Ophir's  golden  stores  ; 


28  Soiigs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

If  Caesar's  bark  must  needs  be  safe 

Amid  the  angry  waves, 
The  men  thou  bearest  can  not  sink 

In  ocean's  gloomy  caves. 

Sail  gladly  on,  the  world  behind 

Is  rent  with  hate  and  strife  ; 
The  canker  of  a  thousand  years 

Is  feeding  on  its  life  ; 
Yea,  welcome,  as  thy  truest  friend, 

This  broad,  dividing  sea  ; 
Its  stormy  ramparts  are  thy  shield, 

The  world  beyond  is  free. 

The  little  seed,  by  Pilgrim  hands 

In  fear  and  weakness  sown, 
May  wait  through  long  and  weary  years 

Before  to  fullness  grown  ; 
But  it  shall  stand,  a  mighty  tree, 

In  glory  and  in  pride, 
And  through  the  rising  ages  stretch 

Its  fruitful  branches  wide. 

Then  sail  thou  on,  though  torn  and  tossed, 
By  tempests  driven  and  hurled, 


The  Mayflower.  29 

Thou  hast  the  charter  which  shall  shape 

And  rule  a  corning;  world. 
The  tyrant  kings,  with  haughty  power, 

Who  scorned  thy  low  estate, 
Shall  roam  as  exiles  in  the  earth, 

And  on  thv  bidding  wait. 


Fair  freedom  from  this  hour  shall  date 

A  new  and  wondrous  birth ; 
The  light  of  liberty  shall  rise 

To  spread  o'er  all  the  earth  ; 
The  monarch's  gilded  throne  shall  grow 

A  cheap  and  childish  thing, 
For  man  in  dignity  shall  stand, 

And  God  alone  be  kino-. 

Earth's  ancient  tribes  and  lands  remote  ; 

Where  Indus  rolls  his  tides, 
Or  where  the  Northern  dwellers  climb 

The  snowy  mountain  sides  ; 
Where  the  fierce  Arab  spurs  his  steed 

Across  the  burning  plain, 
Or  fur-clad  Russians  drive  the  deer 

With  freely  flowing  rein  ; 


30  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Where  the  dark  Ethiop  spreads  his  tent 

On  Afric's  Eastern  shores  ; 
Or  forest  hunters  skim  the  waves 

With  lightly  dipping  oars,  — ■ 
All  lands  beneath  the  circling  sun, 

All  islands  of  the  sea, 
As  centuries  roll,  shall  taste  the  fruit 

From  this  fair  Pilgrim  tree. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


PLYMOUTH   AND   THE   BAY. 

rr^HEY  tell  of  the  mighty  founders, 
~^~     And  the  empires  great  of  old, 
Of  the  rough  gigantic  Nimrod, 

And  of  Romulus  the  bold, 
Of  the  fierce  barbaric  warriors, 

And  the  pirates  of  the  flood, 
Who  built  their  thrones  by  plunder, 

And  stained  their  courts  with  blood  ; 
But  we  sing,  in  a  grander  story, 

Of  the  men  who  crossed  the  sea 
To  change  these  western  forests 

To  an  empire  of  the  free  ; 


Ply  mouth  and  the  Bay.  31 

The  hand  of  the  Lord  was  with  them, 

Along  their  perilous  way, 
And  they  laid  their  firm  foundations 

At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 

They  would  not  bend  the  conscience 

To  suit  a  tyrant's  frown, 
And  at  the  feet  of  haughty  kings 

They  would  not  bow  them  down  ; 
They  met  their  proud  oppressors 

With  calm,  undaunted  eye, 
As  men  long  used  to  suffer, 

And  not  afraid  to  die  ; 
In  the  strength  of  God  they  trusted, 

In  the  love  of  God  the}7  wrought ; 
Nor  gold,  nor  earthly  glory, 

Nor  praise  of  men,  the}7  sought. 
In  humble  faith  and  patience 

They  lived  their  little  day, 
And  laid  their  strong  foundations 

At  Plymouth  and  the  Bay. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


32  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE   PILGRIMS. 

1    TOW  slow  yon  tiny  vessel  plows  the  main ! 
-1 — L     Amid  the  heaving  billows  now  she  seems 
A  toiling  atom.     Then  from  wave  to  wave 
Leaps  madly,  by  the  tempest  lashed,  or  reels, 
Half-wrecked,  through  gulfs  profound. 

Moons  wax  and  wane, 
But  still  that  lonely  traveler  treads  the  deep. 
I    see    an    ice-bound    coast,   towards    which   she 

steers 
With  such  a  tardy  movement  that  it  seems 
Stern  winter's    hand    hath    turned    her    keel    to 

stone, 
And  sealed  his  victory  on  her  slippery  shrouds.  . 
The}'  land  !  they  land  !     Not  like  the  Genoese, 
With  glittering  sword,  and  gaudy  train,  and  eye 
Kindling  with  golden  fancies.     Forth  they  come 
From    their   long   prison,  —  hardy    forms,    that 

brave 
The  world's  unkindness, — men  of  hoary  hair, 
And  virgins  of  firm  heart,  and  matrons   grave, 
Who  hush  the  wailing  infant  with  a  glance. 
Bleak  nature's  desolation  wraps  them  round,  — 


The  Pilgrims.  33 

Eternal  forests,  and  unyielding  earth, 

And  savage  men,  who  through  the  thickets  peer 

With  vengeful  arrow.      AVhat   could   lure   their 

steps 
To  this  drear  desert?     Ask  him  who  left 
His    father's    home   to    roam    through    Haran's 

wilds, 
Distrusting  not  the  guide  who  called  him  forth, 
Nor  doubting,  though  a  stranger,  that  his  seed 
Should  be  as  ocean's  sands. 

But  yon  lone  bark 
Hath  spread  her  parting  sail. 

They  crowd  the  strand, 
Those  few  lone  Pilgrims.     Can  ye  scan  the  woe 
That  wrings  their  bosoms,  as  the  last  frail  link 
Binding  to  man  and  habitable  earth 
Is  severed?     Can  ye  tell  what  pangs  were  there, 
AVhat  keen  regrets,  what  sickness  of  the  heart, 
What  yearnings  o'er  their  forfeit  land  of  birth, 
Their  distant  dear  ones? 

Long  with  straining  eye 
They  watch  the  lessening  speck.     Heard  ye  no 
shriek 


34  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Of  anguish  when  that  bitter  loneliness 

Sank  down  into  their  bosoms  ?     No  !  They  turn 

Back  to  their  dreary  famished  huts,  and  pray  !  — 

Pray,  —  and  the  ills  that  haunt  this  transient  life 

Fade  into  air.     Up  in  each  girded  breast 

There  sprang  a  rooted  and  mysterious  strength, 

A  loftiness,  to  face  a  world  in  arms, 

To  strip  the  pomp  from  scepters,  and  to  lay 

Upon  the  sacred  altar  the  warm  blood 

Of  slain  affections  when  they  rise  between 

The  soul  and  God. 

And  can  ye  deem  it  strange 
That  from  their  planting  such  a  branch  should 

bloom 
As  nations  envy?     Would  a  germ,  embalmed 
With  prayer's  pure  teardrops,  strike  no  deeper 

root 
Than  that  which  mad  ambition's  hand  cloth  strew 
Upon  the  winds,  to  reap  the  winds  again? 
Hid  by  its  veil  of  waters  from  the  hand 
Of  greedy  Europe,  their  bold  vine  spread  forth 
In  giant  strength. 

Its  early  clusters,  crushed 
In  England's  wine-press,  gave  the  tyrant  host 


Hymn.  35 

A  draught  of  deadly  wine.  Oh  !  ye  who  boast 
In  your  free  veins  the  blood  of  sires  like  these, 
Lose    not   their  lineaments.      Should    mammon 

cling 
Too  close  around  your  heart,  or  wealth  beget 
That  bloated  luxury  which  eats  the  core 
From  manly  virtue,  or  the  tempting  world 
Make  faint  the  Christian  purpose  in  your  soul, 
Turn  ye  to  Plymouth's  Beach,  and  on  that  rock 
Kneel  in  their  footprints,  and  renew  the  vow 
They  breathed  to  God. 

—  Mrs.  L.  H.  Sigourney. 


HYMN. 

Ql  ONS  of  the  noble  sires 

^     Who  braved  proud  ocean's  waves 

For  freedom's  sake ! 
Say,  will  ye  quench  those  fires 
Their  faith  and  love  inspires, 
And,  standing  on  their  graves, 

Their  paths  forsake  ? 


36  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Shall  freedom  find  a  grave 
On  this  blood -ransomed  soil? 

Must  we  be  slaves  ? 
Our  fleeting  lives  to  save, 
Must  we  no  mercy  crave, 
But  with  the  bondman  toil, 

Branded  as  knaves? 

Shall  despots  here  bear  sway  ■ 
The  iron  scepter  here  display, 

Our  lips  to  close? 
Sons  of  the  Pilgrims  !     Say, 
Will  ye  these  lords  obey, 
And  ask  them  when  you  may 

The  truth  disclose  ? 

No,  uo  !  we  answer,  No  ! 
The  truth  we  '11  fearless  show 

While  breath  remains  ; 
Did  not  our  Saviour  so? 
Would  he  the  truth  forego? 
Or  shrink  when  bade  the  foe, 

T'  escape  from  pains? 

While  then  a  slave  is  found, 
While  man  by  man  is  bound, 
We  '11  speak  and  pray  ; 


Clark's  Island.  37 

We  '11  wear  the  bondman's  chains, 

We  '11  bear  the  bondman's  pains, 

We  '11  hear  when  he  complains,  — 

We  '11  do  and  say. 

—  George  Russell. 


CLARK'S   ISLAND. 

~pT~AIL !  hallowed  spot,  where  freedom's  rays 
First  darted  o'er  the  wanderer's  ways, 

And  gave  him  rest ; 
First  brought  the  dawn  of  brighter  days,  — 

Thy  shores  are  blest ! 

But  dark  the  clouds  that  lingered  round 
The  island  which  the  Pilgrim  found 

In  time  long  gone, 
And  deep  and  drear  the  thrilling  sound 

Of  gathering  storm. 

Aye,  dark  indeed,  whose  night  of  yore 
That  rocked  the  Mayflower  near  the  shore 

On  wintry  tides,  — 
For  dark  the  waves  that  round  thee  roar. 

And  wash  thy  sides. 


38  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

But  bright  the  star  that  lent  its  ray 
To  bear  the  traveler  on  his  way 

From  childhood's  seat ; 
That  lighted  up  so  fair  a  day 

For  his  retreat. 

Oh,  who  would  ask  a  holier  bed 
Than  where  he  laid  his  weary  head, 

And  nobly  slept? 
For  though  the  Pilgrim  long  hath  fled, 

His  spirit 's  left. 

Then,  hail  the  spot  where  first  the  sound 
Of  freedom  shook  the  sacred  ground 

In  early  days, 
And  filled  the  hills  and  forests  round 

With  gladsome  praise  ! 

—  Kersey  B.   Goodwin. 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS. 

A     VOICE  of  grief  and  anger, 
Of  pity  mixed  with  scorn, 
Moans  o'er  the  waters  of  the  West, 
Through  fire  and  darkness  borne  ; 


TJie  Pilgrim  Fathers.  39 

And  fiercer  voices  join  it,  — 

A  wild,  triumphant  yell ! 
For  England's  foes,  on  ocean  slain, 

Have  heard  it  where  they  fell. 

What  is  the  voice  that  cometh 

Athwart  the  spectered  sea  ?  = 
The  voice  of  men  who  left  their  homes 

To  make  their  children  free  ; 
Of  men  whose  hearts  were  torches 

For  freedom's  quenchless  fire  ; 
Of  men  whose  mothers  have  brought  forth 

The  sire  of  Franklin's  sire. 

They  speak  !  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

Speak  to  you  from  their  graves  ! 
For  earth  hath  muttered  to  their  bones 

That  we  are  soulless  slaves  ! 
The  Bradfords,  Carvers,  Winslows, 

Have  heard  the  worm  complain, 
That  less  than  men  oppress  the  men 

Whose  sires  were  Pym  and  Vane  ! 

What  saith  the  voice  that  boometh 

Athwart  the  upbraiding  waves  ? 
Though  slaves  are  ye,  our  sons  are  free  ; 

Then  why  will  you  be  slaves  ? 


40  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

The  children  of  your  fathers 

Were  Hampden,  Pym,  and  Vane  ! 
Land  of  .the  sires  of  Washington, 
Bring  forth  such  men  again  ! 
—  Ebenezer   Elliot,    the    Corn  -  law    Rhymer    of 
England. 


FOREFATHERS'    DAY. 

/~VER  the  white  surges  of  the  sea 

^-^     A  wave-worn  ship  comes  sailing  on, 

Carrying  aloft,  all  visibly, 

The  marks  of  many  a  tempest  gone. 

Without  a  pilot  at  the  helm, 
On  this  far-past  memorial  day, 

Fearless  of  what  may  overwhelm, 
She  steers  within  the  unknown  bay. 

Beneath  the  bold  and  rocky  steep 

That  guards  that  lone  and  wintry  shore, 

She  casts  her  anchor  to  the  deep, 
Her  Ions:  and  stormv  vovage  o'er. 

I  see  stern  manhood,  bold  and  strong, 
Girt  as  for  any  rugged  task, 


Forefathers'  Day.  41 

Striding  the  slippery  deck  along, 
Nor  caring  in  the  sun  to  bask. 

And,  side  by  side  with  manhood's  pace, 
Under  that  bleak  and  frowning  sky, 

I  see  fair  woman's  gentle  face, 
Braving  the  air  as  fearlessly. 

The  memory  of  their  distant  home, 

So  dear  to  every  filial  heart, 
Still  throbs  beneath  their  spirits'  dome, 

Telling  how  hard  from  it  to  part. 

And  as  they  gaze  upon  the  land, 

Into  the  depths  of  forests  old, 
No  pleasant  views  their  souls  command, 

But  only  scenes  all  dark  and  cold. 

There  are  no  spires  of  cities  fair, 
No  monuments  of  wealth  and  taste 

That  lift  their  winning  beauty  there, 
And  bid  them  to  such  welcome  haste. 

O'er  vale  and  hill  the  pathless  wood 

Stretches  its  scepter  far  away  ; 
Its  shadows  all  the  landscape  brood, 

And  dim  the  light  of  brightest  day. 


42  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

In  such  a  scene,  what  heritage 
These  lonely  voyagers  to  cheer? 

What  prizes  that  their  choice  engage 
Amid  these  barren  wilds  appear? 

Have  they  the  conqueror's  thirst  for  blood  ? 

And  would  they  win  a  warrior's  fame  ? 
And  here,  beyond  this  Western  flood, 

Carve  with  the  sword  a  soldier's  name  ? 

Nay  ;  they  have  come  across  the  sea 

From  the  dear  land  that  gave  them  birth, 

To  worship  God  in  liberty 

In  these  remotest  ends  of  earth. 

Ah  !  on  the  crest  of  Plymouth  Rock 

They  built  more  grandly  than  they  knew, 

And  to  that  sacred  stone  there  flock 
Unnumbered  Pilgrims,  brave  and  true. 

Are  we  the  sons  of  Pilgrim  sires? 

Where'er  we  roam,  o'er  land  and  sea, 
Burn  in  our  hearts  the  living  fires 

That  prove  such  high  nativity  ? 

Prize  we  the  memory  of  the  day 

That  brought  our  fathers  o'er  the  deep? 


Forefathers'  Day.  43 

And  would  we,  fearlessly  as  they, 
A  Pilgrim's  faith  unfaltering  keep  ? 

Do  we  forsake  a  life  of  ease  ? 

Do  we  reject  the  rule  of  sense  ? 
And,  seeking  not  ourselves  to  please, 

Choose  rather  to  be  exiled  hence  ? 

When  we  are  tempted  to  provide 

The  good  that  earthly  passions  crave  — 

Ambition,  luxury,  and  pride  — 
Flee  we  across  the  distant  wave  ? 

The  scepter  of  this  lower  world, 
Held  o'er  our  heads  to  bid  us  bow, 

Let  us,  with  canvas  wide  unfurled, 
O'er  some  Atlantic  turn  our  prow  ! 

By  self-denial's  sacrifice, 

And  self-devotion  to  the  right, 
To  heaven's  guidance  lift  our  eyes, 

And  from  all  evil  take  our  flight ! 


o 


So  may  we  prove  the  hallowed  tie 
That  binds  us  to  that  Pilgrim  band, 

And  live  again,  all  filially, 

Their  life,  so  holy,  pure,  and  grand  ! 

—  A.  L.  Stone. 


44  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

SONG.1 

Tune :  British  Hero. 

A    LL   hail  the  day  that  ushers  in 
The  period  of  revolving  time, 
In  which  our  sires,  of  glorious  fame, 
Bravely  through  toils  and  dangers  came, 

Novanglia's  wilds  to  civilize, 

And  wild  disorder  harmonize, 

To  plant  Britannia's  arts  and  arms, 

Plenty,  peace,  freedom  —  pleasing  charms, 

Derived  from  British  rights  and  laws, 
That  justly  merit  our  applause  ; 
Darlings  of  heaven,  heroes  brave, 
You  still  shall  live,  though  in  the  grave. 

Live,  live,  within  each  grateful  breast, 
With  reverence  for  your  names  possessed  ; 
Your  praises  on  our  tongues  shall  dwell. 
And  sires  to  sons  your  actions  tell. 

To  distant  poles  their  praise  resound, 
Let  virtue  be  with  glory  crowned. 

1Sung  at  the  second  celebration,  1770. 


H  mn.  45 

Ye  dreary  wilds,  each  rock  and  cave. 
Echo  the  virtues  of  the  brave. 

They  nobly  braved  their  indigene. 
Death,  famine,  sword,  and  pestilence. 
Each  toil,  each  danger  they  endured. 
Till  for  their  sons  they  had  procured 

A  fertile  soil,  profusely  blest 

With  nature's  stores,  and  now  possessed 

g  :>ns  who  gratefully  revere 
Our  fathers'  names  and  memories  dear. 

Plvmouth.  the  great  mausoleum. 
Famous  for  our  forefathers'  tomb  ; 
Join,  join  the  chorus,  one  and  all. 
Resound  their  deeds  in  Colony  Hall ! 

—  JL:  Scam 


"DEMEMBER.  Eord.  thy  folk  whom  thou 

"     To  wilderness  hast  brought ; 
Let  not  thine  own  inheritance 
Be  sold  away  for  nought. 

—  Amu  Bradshreet. 


46  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


HYMN. 

[1770.] 

fTX)  thee  the  tuneful  anthem  soars, 

To  thee,  our  fathers'  God,  and  ours  ; 

This  wilderness  we  chose  our  seat ; 
To  rights  secured  by  equal  laws, 
From  persecution's  iron  claws, 

We  here  have  sought  our  calm  retreat. 

See  !  how  the  flocks  of  Jesus  rise  ! 
See  !  how  the  face  of  Paradise 

Blooms  through  the  thickets  of  the  wild  ! 
Here  Liberty  erects  her  throne  ; 
Here  Plenty  pours  her  treasures  down  ; 

Peace  smiles,  as  heavenly  cherubs  mild. 

Lord  !  guard  thy  favors  ;  Lord  !  extend 
Where  farther  western  suns  descend  ; 

Nor  southern  seas  the  blessings  bound  ; 
Till  Freedom  lift  her  cheerful  head, 
Till  pure  Religion  onward  spread, 

And,  beaming,  wrap  the  globe  around. 

—  Mather  Byles. 


Monday,  11-21.  December.  1620.  47 


MONDAY,  11-21.  DECEMBER,  1620. 

"A /TORXIXG-  was  breaking  over  Gurnet  Head  ; 
-l*-*-     Up  sprang  Miles  Standish  from  his  hem- 
lock bed. 
With   cold   and   anxious  forethought    hard    be- 
stead. 

The  chilliug  shadows  of  the  shortest  day 
Delayed  the  brightness  of  the  dawning  ray. 
"While  round  the    smolderins;    fire    his   comrades 
lay. 

He  raked  the  embers  with  a  branch  of  fir, 
Threw  o'er  the  coals  pine-knots  and  juniper, 
And  watched  the  fragrant,  crackling  blazes  stir. 

The  merry  sound,  sugorestinor  better  cheer 

Of  warmth,  and  light,  and  comfort  waiting  near, 

One  and  another  waked,  intent  to  hear. 

A  tall  and  slender  form,  with  winsome  face  — 
Its  fine  lines  beaming  with  benignant  grace  — 
And  aspect  gentler  than  became  the  place. 

Stood  at  his  side  —  to  whom  then  Standish  said  : 
"  I  fear  me,  governor,  lest  this  rough  work,  bred 
Of  wave  aud  winter,  shall  leave  manv  dead. 


48  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

"  Haste  is  upon  us.     Somewhere  in  this  bay 

It  groweth  urgent  that  we  fix,  this  day, 

Some  spot  where  we  may  build  and  make  a  way." 

"  Even  so,"  replied  the  governor  ;  "  yet  my  faith 
Is  strong  that,  as  the  ancient  Psalmist  saith, 
'  Who  cry  for  help,  them  He  delivereth.' 

"  While  'on  the  Sabbath  day  we  rested '  here, 
Giving  the  hours,  as  well,  to  humble  prayer, 
Doubt  fled,  and  to  my  soul  all  things  grew  clear, 

As,  to  the  eye  of  faith,  that  cloudy  sign 
Which  Israel  followed  as  its  guide  benign, 
Rested,  for  us,  upon  that  dark  shoreline." 

John  Carver  pointed,  as  he  spake,  away 
Whither,  three  miles  or  more  across  the  bay, 
The  gleam  from  sunrise  on  a  hillside  lay. 

Spake  out  then  Master  Coppin,  standing  near : 
'•An'  't  please  your  worships,  shallow  gulfs,  as 

here, 
Have  this  one  law  :  '  Hard  by  the  channel  steer.' 

"  Two  days  of  ebb  and  flood  to  my  close  quest 
Have  marked,  without  mistake,    one   course   as 

best ; 
The  tide-flow  inward  maketh  south-south-west. 


Monday,  11-21,  December,  1620.  49 

"And   though  yon   slopes    across   these   nearer 

shoals 
Invite  the  coming  of  sea-weary  souls, 
Not  that  way  is  it  that  deep  water  rolls." 

" 'T  is  well,"  the  governor  said.      "Break   first 

our  fast ; 
With  prayer  let  speed  be  made  ;  put  sail  to  mast ; 
Answer  approacheth  for  our  problem  vast." 

Uncovering  round  the  sturdy  watch-fire's  blaze, 
He  next,  accordant  to  their  pious  ways, 
Led  them  to  heaven    in    speech   of    prayer    and 
praise. 

Then    turned    they,    hungry,    to    their     simple 

cheer,  — 
As  in  the  fatherlands  that  sent  them  there,  — 
Thankful  for  biscuit,  cheese,  and  bitter  beer. 

In  haste  they  bounded  o'er  the  shallop's  side. 
Pushed  off  with  ease  upon  the  rising  tide, 
And  to  their  sail  the  help  of  oars  supplied. 

They  caught   the   north-west   wind   off   Saquish 

sand, 
And  soon  the  young  flood  lent  its  powerful  hand 
To   tug   their  keel   toward   the    long-wished-for 

strand. 


50  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

By  Long   Beach    Head    eastward    the    channel 

veered, 
And  for  a  mile  scarcely  the  mainland  neared, 
While  straight  before  the  favoring  breeze   they 

steered. 

That  land  gave  greeting  in  the  young  day's  light, 
Well- wooded    and    well-hilled,    and    clean    and 

bright ; 
A  home-like  look  it  had  —  a  pleasant  sight ! 

Cleared  ground  on  one  side  offered  homesteads 

good, 
While  close  around  it,  as  grim  sentinels,  stood 
Some  lofty  monarchs  of  primeval  wood. 

Sharp  to  the  west  the  tide-way  sudden  strayed 
Toward  where  a  bowlder  on  its  side  was  laid. 
Near  bv  an  entering  stream  its  music  made. 


"O 


"  Let  us  debark,"  impetuous  Standish  bade  ; 
To  whom  the  governor  bowed  his  willing  head, 
And  for  the  bowlder's  side  the  boat  was  sped. 

Shoreward,  in  sand  the  rock  lay  bedded  steep, 
Seaward,  it  bordered  upon  waters  deep  ; 
Easy  the  eager  crew  could  on  it  leap. 


Monday,  11-21,  December,  1620.         51 

Landed,    they    rambled    through    those     forest 

nooks, 
Heard  something  like  the  "caw"  of  their  own 

rooks, 
Found  cornfields  here  and   there,    and   running 

brooks ; 

Oaks,  pines,   beech,    walnut,   cedar,  birch,  and 

ash  — 
As  goodly  trees  as  the  Old  Country  has  — 
With  plum,  asp,  cherry,  vines,  and  sassafras ; 

Sorrel  and  yarrow,  brooklime,  liverwort, 

"  Great  stores  of  leekes  and  onyons,"  many  a 

sort 
Of  wild  herb,  good  for  use  of  health,  or  hurt. 

"A  spit's  depth  of  black  earth"   indorsed   the 

mold ; 
While,  that  all  Indian  "  signs"  were  plainly  old, 
Freedom  of  entry  to  new-comers  told. 

And  now  the  brief  day  stands  at  its  high  noon. 
Spake  Carver  :     "  Goodmen  !  darkness  haste th 

soon, 
With  small  help  for  us  from  the  waning  moon. 


52  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

"  These  shores  beseem  '  for  scituation  good ' ; 
Here  maize,  and  fowl,  and  fish  plan   plenteous 

food, 
And  desolation  offereth  quietude. 

"  What  harbor  for  our  shipping  it  can  prove, 
To  test  and  settle  doth  us  next  behoove  ; 
So  to  our  soundings  let  us  instant  move." 

As  down  the  bluffs   they  haste,    bound   in   one 

thrall, 
For  a  brief  moment,  on  a  hillock  tall, 
As  by  a  common  impulse,  lingered  all. 

The  scene  was  winsome,  — calm  the  waters  lay, 
And  soft  the  sweet  light  stretching  far  away,  — 
A  summer  picture  for  a  winter's  day. 

Quoth  Bradford  :  "If  to  us  God  blessing  gave, 
Who  should  die   serving   here,    should   comfort 

have, 
Nor  miss  man's  benison  on  his  lowly  grave." 

14  Ay  !  "  answered  Carver.     "  Ay  !   better   sleep 

here"  — 
His  word  awaiting  proof  that  self -same  year  — 
"  Than  in  the  Rhine-washed  aisles  of  St.  Pierre." 


From  4i  The  Present  Crisis"  53 

The  shallop's  heavy  head  was  sent  about, 

And,  with  their  fathorn-line  and  plummet  stout, 

That  't  was  a  harbor  fair,  put  out  of  doubt. 

Then  toward  Clark's   Island   back   their   course 

they  lay, 
The  night  in  bivouac  there  once  more  to  stay, 
And  hie  them  to  their  ship  the  following  day. 

They  had  the  work  in  hand  done  to  their  best, 
Yet  dreamed  not,  as  that  sun  went  down   the 

west, 
That  to  the  ages  they  had  made  bequest ! 

—  H.  M.  Dexter. 


FROM   "THE  PRESENT  CRISIS."1 

/^OUNT  me  o'er  earth's  chosen  heroes,  — they 

^-^     were  souls  that  stood  alone, 

While   the   men   they    agonized    for   hurled  the 

.   contumelious  stone  ; 
Stood   serene,    and   down   the    future    saw   the 
golden  beam  incline 

1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


54  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their 

faith  divine, 
By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and   to 

manhood's  great  design. 

For  humanity  sweeps  onward  ;   where  to-day  the 

martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in 

his  hands ; 
Far   in   front   the   cross   stands   ready  and   the 

crackling  fagots  burn, 
While  the  hooting  mob  of   yesterday  in  silent 

awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  history's 

golden  urn. 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 

Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers' 
graves  ; 

Worshipers  of  the  light  ancestral  make  the  pres- 
ent light  a  crime  ;  — 

Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered 
by  men  behind  their  time  ? 

Turn  those    tracks    toward   past  or    future    that 
make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ? 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 


Ode.  55 


ODE. 


IVTOT  all  the  loftiest  memories 
-^  That  rose  on  earlier  days, 
When,  with  the  trump  and  sacrifice, 

And  swelling  pomp  of  praise, 
Men  gathered  to  their  pillared  halls, 

'Mid  garlands,  joy,  and  wine, 
To  gaze  on  heroes  round  the  walls, 

In  marble  made  divine, 

And  pour  the  deep  libation  there 

To  victors  passed  away  ; 
On  minds  whose  wonders,  rich  and  rare, 

Poured  splendor  on  their  day,  — 
Not  all  in  finer  hearts  can  vie 

With  those  that  summon  here 
To  lift,  on  freedom's  clarion  high, 

The  anthem  of  our  cheer  ! 

We  sing  a  nobler  race  than  passed 

In  ancient  times  to  glory ; 
We  sing  of  deeds  that  shall  outlast, 

In  fame,  all  classic  story  ; 


56  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Of  men  who  fought  for  God,  and  gave 

Home  for  a  desert  shore,  — 
With  hearts  too  panoplied  and  brave 

To  quail  beneath  its  roar  ! 

Of  exiles  of  a  deathless  line 

And  proud,  unshrinking  brow  ; 
Lone  pilgrims  to  a  rocky  shrine, 

Where  a  people  bend  them  now  ; 
A  rocky  shrine,  unsheltered,  rude, 

Where  the  wild  wolf  from  his  lair 
Shrieked  through  the  pathless  solitude, 

And  broke  the  voice  of  prayer  ! 

We  sing  of  heroes  who  outdid 

The  boast  of  chivalry  ; 
Whose  valor  braved  the  shock  amid 

A  stormy  sea  and  sky  ; 
Whose  deeds  were  deeds  of  mercy,  done 

To  persecuted  man  ; 
Whose  wreaths  were  wreaths  of  triumph,  won 

In  virtue's  fearless  van  ! 

New  England's  fathers  !     Men  who  dared 

The  agony  of  years  ; 
Whom  pale  oppression  never  spared, 

But  could  not  bow  to  tears  ; 


Ode.  57 

Who,  'mid  the  howl  of  winter,  fled, 
And  your  banner  here  unfurled, 

And  conscience  in  her  pride  outled 
Unfettered  to  the  world. 

Pilgrims  of  glory  !     There  shall  rise 

Fast  praise  from  heart  and  tongue 
Of  all  for  whom  in  sacrifice, 

Like  martyr-saints,  ye  sprung  ; 
And  their  children's  children  shall  outpour 

From  echoing  clime  to  clime, 
New  paeans  for  the  toils  ye  bore 

In  a  nation's  morning-time. 

Two  hundred  years  their  cloudy  wings 

Expand  above  your  graves  ; 
And  lo,  what  wide-flashed  glory  flings 

O'er  all  New  England's  waves  ! 
Fathers  of  liberty  !     To  ye 

We  lift  the  wine-cup  now  ; 
Yours  be  the  hallowed  memory 

That  consecrates  our  vow  ! 

And  should  the  voice  of  prophecy 

That 's  doomed  us  to  the  dust 
E'er  chant  the  requiem  of  the  free, 

By  tyranny  accursed, 


58  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Oh,  be  a  remnant  true  to  her ! 

Sons  whom  New  England  bore, 
Together  seek  one  sepulcher 

On  Plymouth's  sounding  shore  ! 

—  Grenville  Mellen. 


HYMN.1 


n^HE  brittle  bark  is  on  the  gale, 

Heaven    guides  her  course  and  swells  the 
sail ; 
The  Pilgrims  reach  yon  welcome  shore, 
All  vocal  with  the  songs  they  pour. 

Keen  round  them  blows  the  winter's  air  ; 
The  weary  wanderers  knee!  for  prayer  ; 
From  opening  clouds  a  voice  is  given ; 
Pilgrims,  there  's  nothing  true  but  heaven  ! 

What  though  no  rustic  cloud,  nor  flame, 
Led  on  the  wanderers  as  they  came? 
By  faith  they  saw  the  one  true  God 
Was  guardian  of  the  way  they  trod. 

i  Written  for  December  22,  1831. 


Hymn.  59 

God  of  our  fathers,  hear  our  prayer  ! 
This  church  be  still  aud  loug  thy  care  ; 
Aud,  grateful  at  this  day's  return, 
Fresh  incense  at  thy  shrine  shall  burn. 

How  long  shall  erring  mortals  feel 
The  exclusive,  the  unholy  zeal 
The  golden  gates  of  heaven  to  close 
On  all  they  dare  to  call  thy  foes? 

These  doors  we  open  fling,  and  free 
To  all,  Great  God,  who  call  on  thee  ; 
If  warm  their  hearts  in  Christian  deeds, 
Who  shall  exclude  them  for  their  creeds  ? 

Here  may  they  drink  from  living  springs 
The  light  and  life  the  gospel  brings  ; 
And,  healed  by  Siloa's  waters,  deem 
Thy  power  and  bounty  fed  the  stream. 

Rise  !  Bethlehem's  star,  and  spread  thy  blaze 

To  every  land  in  cheering  rays, 

Till  angels,  in  the  glad  employ, 

Cast  down  their  crowns  and  shout  for  joy ! 

—  Anonymous. 


60  JSongs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

ODE  FOR   THE   22d  OF   DECEMBER.1 

Tune :  America. 

O  ONS  of  renowned  sires  ! 
^     Join  in  harmonious  choirs, 

Swell  your  loud  songs  ; 
Daughters  of  peerless  dames  ! 
Come  with  your  mild  acclaims, 
Let  their  revered  names 

Dwell  on  your  tongues  ! 

From  frowning  Albion's  seat, 
See  the  famed  band  retreat, 

On  ocean  tost ; 
Blue  tumbling  billows  roar, 
By  keel  scarce  plowed  before, 
And  bear  them  to  this  shore, 

Fettered  with  frost. 

By  yon  wave-beaten  Rock, 
See  the  illustrious  flock 
Collected  stand  ; 

i  Composed  for  the  Anniversary  Festival  at  Plymouth  in  1792. 


Ode  for  the  2  2d  of  December.  61 

To  seek  some  sheltering  grove, 
Their  faithful  partners  move, 
Dear  pledges  of  their  love 
In  either  hand. 

Not  winter's  sullen  face, 
Not  the  fierce  tawny  race 

In  arms  arrayed ; 
Not  hunger  shook  their  faith, 
Not  sickness'  baleful  breath, 
Nor  Carver's  early  death, 

Their  souls  dismayed. 

Watered  by  heavenly  dew 
The  germ  of  empire  grew, 

Freedom  its  root. 
From  the  cold  Northern  pine, 
Far  toward  the  burning  line, 
Spreads  the  luxuriant  vine, 

Bending  with  fruit. 

Columbia  !  child  of  heaven  ! 
The  best  of  blessings  given 

Rest  on  thy  head  ; 
Beneath  thy  peaceful  skies, 
While  prosperous  tides  arise, 
Here  turn  thy  grateful  eyes, 

Revere  the  dead. 


62  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Afterward  revised  to:  — 

[Columbia  !  child  of  heaven  ! 
The  best  of  blessings  given 

Be  thine  to  greet ; 
Hailing  this  votive  day, 
Looking  with  fond  survey 
Upon  the  weary  way 

Of  Pilgrim  feet.] 

Here  trace  the  moss-grown  stones, 
Where  rest  their  moldering  bones, 

Again  to  rise  ; 
And  let  thy  sons  be  led 
To  emulate  the  dead, 
While  o'er  their  tombs  they  tread 

With  moistened  eyes. 

Sons  of  renowned  sires  ! 
Join  in  harmonious  choirs, 

Swell  your  loud  songs  ; 
Daughters  of  peerless  dames  ! 
Come  with  thy  mild  acclaims, 
Let  their  revered  names 

Dwell  on  your  tongues. 

—  John  Davis. 


Hymn  for  the  2  2d  of  December.  63 

HYMN   FOR   THE   22d   OF   DECEMBER.1 

Tune :  Ferry. 

"TTTHEN  o'er  the  billows  heaving  deep, 

*  f       The  fathers  of  our  race, 
The  precepts  of  their  God  to  keep, 

Sought  here  their  resting-place, 

That  gracious  God  their  path  prepared, 

Preserved  from  every  harm, 
And  still  for  their  protection  bared 

His  everlasting  arm. 

His  breath,  inspiring  every  gale, 

Impels  them  o'er  the  main, 
His  guardian  angel  spreads  the  sail, 

And  tempests  howl  in  vain. 

For  them  old  ocean's  rocks  are  smoothed  ; 

December's  face  grows  mild  ; 
To  vernal  airs  her  blasts  are  soothed, 

And  all  their  rage  beguiled. 

When  Famine  rolls  her  haggard  eyes 

His  ever-bounteous  hand 
Abundance  from  the  sea  supplies, 

And  treasure  from  the  sand. 
1  Sung  at  the  Foi*efathers'  celebration  of  1803. 


64  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Nor  yet  his  tender  mercies  cease  ; 

His  over-ruling  plan 
Inclines  to  gentleness  and  peace 

The  heart  of  savage  man. 

And  can  our  stony  bosoms  be 

To  all  these  wonders  blind  ? 
Nor  swell  with  thankfulness  to  thee, 

O  Parent  of  mankind  ? 

All-gracious  God  !  inflame  our  zeal : 
Dispense  one  blessing  more  — 

Grant  us  thy  boundless  love  to  feel, 
Thy  goodness  to  adore. 

—  John  Quincy  Adams. 


FROM   "THE  PRESENT   CRISIS."1 

rj^HEY  were  men   of    present   valor,  stalwart 

old  iconoclasts, 
Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was 

the  past's ; 
But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking 
that  hath  made  us  free, 
1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


From  "  Tlie  Present  Crisis."  65 

Hoarding  it  in  moldy  parchments,  while  our  ten- 
der spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  impulse  which 
drove  them  across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dai*e  maintain  them ;  we 

are  traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  freedom's  new-lit 

altar-fires ; 
Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ?  shall  we  in 

our  haste  to  slay, 
From  the  tombs   of  the  old  prophets   steal  the 

funeral  lamps  away 
To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets 

of  to-day? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties ;  time  makes 
ancient  good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would 
keep  abreast  of  truth  ; 

Lo !  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires  !  we  our- 
selves must  pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through 
the  desperate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  future's  portal  with  the  past's 
blood-rusted  key. 

— James  Russell  Loivell. 


66  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


HYMN   FOR  THE   22d   OF   DECEMBER. 

(1799.) 
Tune:  Old  Hundred. 

TT~AIL  !  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  our  race, 

With  grateful  hearts  your  toils  we  trace  ; 
Again  this  votive  day  returns, 
And  finds  us  bending  o'er  your  urns. 

Jehovah's  arm  prepared  the  road  : 
The  heathen  vanished  at  his  nod  ; 
He  gave  his  vine  a  lasting  root ; 
He  loads  its  goodly  boughs  with  fruit. 

The  hills  are  covered  with  its  shade  ; 
Its  thousand  shoots  like  cedar  spread  ; 
Its  branches  to  the  sea  expand, 
And  reach  to  broad  Superior's  strand. 

Of  peace  and  truth  the  gladsome  ray 
Smiles  in  our  skies  and  cheers  the  day ; 
And  a  new  empire's  splendent  wheels 
Roll  o'er  the  top  of  Western  hills. 

Hail !  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  our  race, 
With  grateful  hearts  your  toils  we  trace  ; 
Oft  as  this  votive  day  returns, 
We  '11  pay  due  honors  to  your  urns. 


An  Ode.  67 

AN   ODE. 

(1806.) 

Ask  thy  Father,  and  he  will  shew  thee.  — Moses. 
The  Lord  hath  done  great  things  for  us.  —  Psalmist. 

"TTTITH  sympathetic  sway, 
*  *    Commemorate  the  day 
Our  fathers  came  ; 

From  England's  hostile  shore, 

By  persecution  sore, 

Crimsoned  with  martyrs'  gore 
They  crossed  the  main. 

An  asylum  to  seek, 

They  crossed  the  raging  deep, 

Conscience  their  star ; 
By  God's  approving  grace, 
It  aids  them  to  this  place 
In  this  drear  wilderness. 

God's  name  revere. 

By  troubles  drove  from  home, 
Amid  stern  winter's  gloom, 
They  landed  here  ; 

1  In  commemoration  of  the  landing  of  our  Forefathers  in  Ply. 
mouth,  December  22, 1620. 


68  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

No  friend  to  give  relief, 
Or  mitigate  their  grief, 
But  foes  to  mercy  deaf, 
With  bow  and  spear. 

They  foes  nor  dangers  fear, 
Nor  winter's  cold  severe, 

Nor  death's  cold  hand, 
That  thinned  them  off  apace, 
Nor  godly  Carver's  death, 
All  could  not  shake  their  faith, 

To  quit  the  land. 

Then  while  we  tread  the  soil, 
The  blessings  of  their  toil, 

We  '11  not  forget 
The  end  for  which  they  came  : 
To  spread  the  gospel's  fame  ; 
While  we  enjoy  the  same, 

God's  praise  repeat. 

Sons  of  Columbia,  join 
To  praise  the  hand  divine  ; 

Daughters  rejoice  ; 
And  as  ye  praise  his  name, 
Sing  our  Forefathers'  fame, 
Who  hither  laid  your  claim. 

Loud  raise  your  voice. 


The  Pilgrims.  69 

Though  yonder  silent  tombs 

Contain  their  moldering  bones, 

Their  names  yet  live  ; 

The  wonders  they  have  done 

Shall  go  from  son  to  son, 

That  people  yet  unborn 

Shall  sing  his  praise. 

—  F.  B. 


THE   PILGRIMS.1 

~\  /TEN    in    the    middle    of    life,    austere    and 

"*-     grave  in  deportment, 
Only  one  of  them  old,  the  hill  that  was  nearest 

to  heaven, 
Covered   with   snow,    but    erect,    the    excellent 

elder  of  Plymouth. 
God  had  sifted  three  kingdoms  to  find  the  wheat 

for  this  planting, 
Then  sifted  the  wheat,  as  the  living  seed  of  a 

nation ; 

So  say  the  chronicles  old,  and  such  is  the  faith 

of  the  people. 

—  Longfellow. 

1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


70  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE   SAINTED    SIRES. 


\\f  HILE   Pilgrim's  sons,  a  festive  throng, 
*  *        To  sainted  sires  their  homage  pay, 
Be  this  the  burthen,  the  burthen  of  their  song, 
And  rapture  animate  the  lay  : 

CHORUS. 

Hail,  ye  Pilgrims ! 

Ye  sainted  Pilgrims,  hail ! 

Till  hours,  and  years,  and  time  shall  fail. 

By  heroes  led,  by  virtue  warmed, 

Conducted  by  the  Almighty  hand, 
They  braved  the  ocean,  the  ocean  and  the  storm, 

And  freedom  sought  in  unknown  land. 

The  perils  of  the  ocean  past, 

Fresh  dangers  quickly  thern  surround  ; 

Shrill  screams  the  savage,  the  savage    o'er    the 
blast, 
And  rocks  and  hills  repeat  the  sound. 

The  barbarous  foe  to  battle  fly, 

Intent  on  bloody  deeds  and  spoil ; 
Swift  flies  the  arrow,  the  arrow  through  the  sky, 

But  victory  crowns  the  Pilgrim's  toil. 


From  "  Interview  with  Miles  Standish."     71 

Success  atteDd  the  good  and  brave, 
The  meed  of  praise  to  them  belongs  ; 

Virtue    shall   triumph,    shall    triumph    o'er    the 
grave, 
And  angels  join  their  rapturous  songs. 

Hail,  ye  Pilgrims  ! 
Ye  sainted  Pilgrims,  hail ! 
When  earth,  and  sky,  and  time  shall  fail. 

—  Anonymous. 


FROM    ''INTERVIEW   WITH   MILES 
STANDISH."1 

The  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said  :  "  My  name  is  Standish. 
I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 

With  toasts,  and  songs,  and  speeches, 
As  Ions;  and  flat  as  mv  old  sword, 

As  threadbare  as  my  breeches  ; 
TJiey  understand  us  Pilgrims  !     They, 

Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 
Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared  away, 

And  varnish  in  their  places  ! 

1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


72  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

We  had  some  toughness  in  our  grain : 

The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 

Of  drawing-room  Tyrtaeuses  ; 
They  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 

Their  birthright  high  and  holy  ! 
A  mountain  stream  that  ends  in  mud 

Methinks  is  melancholy. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 


FROM   "BIGLOW   PAPERS."1 

That  famous  bark, 
That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 

Capacious  as  another  ark, 
For  furniture  decrepit ; 
For,  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation, 
So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased 
And  furnished  half  the  nation. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 

By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifiiin  &  Co. 


Hymn,  73 


HYMN.1 

Tune :  Old  Hundred. 

f"AUR   fathers'  God  !  to  thee  we  raise, 

-       With  one  accord,  the  song  of  praise  ; 
To  thee  our  grateful  tribute  pay, 
Oft  as  returns  this  festal  day. 

With  tearful  eyes  we  here  will  trace 
Thy  wonders  to  the  Pilgrim  race, 
And  while  those  wonders  we  explore, 
Their  names  extol,  thy  name  adore. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  thy  own  decree 
Ordained  the  Pilgrims  to  be  free  ; 
In  foreign  lands  they  owned  thy  care, 
And  found  a  safe  asylum  there. 

When  the  wide  main  they  traversed  o'er, 
And  landed  on  this  sea-beat  shore, 
The  Pilgrims'  Rock  must  e'er  proclaim 
Thy  guardian  care  was  still  the  same. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  while  here  we  trace 
Our  lineage  to  the  Pilgrim  race, 

1  Sung  at  Plymouth,  22  December,  1806. 


74  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Oh,  may  we  like  those  Pilgrims  live, 
And  in  the  sons  the  sires  revive. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  to  thee  we  raise, 
With  one  accord,  the  song  of  praise  ; 
To  thee  our  grateful  tribute  pay, 
Oft  as  returns  this  festal  day. 

—  Abiel  Holmes. 


SONG.1 

Tune :  Hail  Columbia. 

npHE   Almighty  gave  the  high  behest  — 
-*-      Rise  an  empire  in  the  West, 
Freedom's  loved  and  last  abode, 
Freedom's  loved  and  last  abode. 
Our  fathers  bowed  to  his  decree, 
And  dauntless  braved  an  unknown  sea, 
Climbed  the  foaming  precipice, 
Plunged  adown  the  black  abyss, 
Where  the  maddening  tempest  raves, 
Where  meet  the  sk}T  the  mountain  waves. 

1  Sung  at  celebration  of  21  December,  1806,  New  York. 


Song.  75 

CHORUS. 

Sons  of  freedom,  swell  the  song ; 
To  sainted  sires  the  notes  prolong, 
Till  the  echoing  skies  around 
Sound  the  trumpet-note  rebound. 

Lo  !  the  heaven-protected  band 
Seeks  the  forest-fringed  strand. 

Roars  the  rough  hybernal  blast, 

Roars  the  rough  hybernal  blast. 
Countless  perils  wait  them  here, 
Sickness  pale  and  famine  drear, 

Pining  want  and  dire  disease 

Float  in  every  blasting  breeze  ; 

Desolation's  ghastly  form 

Rides  in  every  death-winged  storm. 

Murderous  hordes  of  savage  foes 
Round  the  pious  Pilgrims  rose, 

"With  flinty  hearts  and  blood-stained  hands, 

With  flinty  hearts  and  blood-stained  hands. 
From  horror's  haunts,  in  wilds  immense, 
Lo  !  the  gloomy  bands  condense. 

Hark  !  the  war-whoop's  frantic  yell 

Bursts  from  yonder  dismal  dell ; 

Savage  forms  of  demons  dire 

Wrap  the  Pilgrims'  camp  in  fire. 


76  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

The  God  at  whose  behest 

Rose  an  empire  in  the  West, 
Freedom's  loved  and  last  abode, 
Freedom's  loved  and  last  abode, 

Protected  still,  with  mighty  hand, 

The  Pilgrims  in  a  barbarous  land. 
Raise  the  song  of  festive  mirth 
To  those  who  gave  an  empire  birth  ; 
Their  names  and  memories  shall  rest 
Enthroned  in  every  freeman's  breast. 

—  Thomas  Greene  Fessenden. 


FROM   "BIGLOW  PAPERS."1 


QST 


RANGE  new  world,  thet  vit  wast  never 


young ! 

Whose   youth   from    thee   by   gripin'    need  was 

wrung, 

Brown  foundlin'  o'  the  woods,  whose  baby-bed 

Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injun's  cracklin'  tread, 

An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts  an'  wants  an' 

pains, 
Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in  their  brains. 

—  James  Russell  Lowell. 

1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


H 


Song.  11 

SONG. 

(December  22,  1807.) 

AIL !   sons  of  the  Pilgrims,  assembled  to 

pay 

Festivity's  rite  to  our  fathers  in  glory  ! 
May  the  ardor  of  friendship  enliven  the  lay, 
And  their  virtues  be  told  while  we  glow  with 
the  story. 

With  the  patriot's  fire 
Be  inflamed  each  desire, 
To  all  that  is  noble  each  bosom  aspire  ; 
For,  long  as  old  earth  on  her  axle  shall  turn, 
On  the  altars  of   freemen  pure  incense  should 
burn. 

When  tyranny  bigotry's  banners  upreared, 

Those   fathers,  for   conscience,  for   freedom, 
self-banished, 
Confiding  in  heaven,  o'er  the  wild  billow  steered, 
And  in  Holland  found  refuge,  while  bigotry 
vanished ; 

There,  strangers  awhile 

From  their  friends,  from  their  isle, 


78  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

See  them  sojourn  in  hope,  in  adversity  smile  ; 
Till,  raising  again  the  white  sail  to  the  wind, 
They  plow  the  rough  main  their  own  region  to 
find. 

Long  tossing  in  doubt  o'er  the  'wildering  wave, 
The  pilot  yet  timid  to  brave  the  commotion  ; 
Them  hailing  to  freedom,  from  perils  to  save, 
Columbia  displayed   her  blue  skirt  from    the 
ocean. 

In  Plymouth  they  land, 
On  the  bleak,  barren  strand, 
Yet  they  're  strong  in  their  shield  —  an  Omnipo- 
tent hand  : 
For  there  to  their  wanderings  a  period  they  find, 
And  their  brows  with  the  laurels  of  freedom  first 
bind. 

The  savage  his  quiver  exhausted  in  vain  ; 

He  rose,  but  his  tomahawk  idle  descended  ; 
Independent,  the  Pilgrims  moved  free  o'er  the 
plain ; 
Magnanimity     nerved     them,     their     bravery 
defended ; 

Though  environed  by  foes, 
They  found  calm  repose, 


Song.  79 

While  the  wilderness  blossomed  and  smiled  like 

the  rose  ; 
Till  late  to  the  grave  as  they  smoothly  declined, 
To    their    offspring    their   virtue,   a    birthright, 

resigned. 

When  Albion  their  heirs  to  enslave  vainly  strove, 

When  lunatic  committed  aggression, 
They  lowered  in  the  combat,  the  assailants  hence 
drove, 
Independence  they  won,  of   their  rights  kept 
possession. 

Then  oft  will  we  tell, 
In  the  feast  of  the  shell, 
The  deeds  of  their  fame,  till  with  transports  we 

swell ; 
And   teach  the  sweet  infant  that  smiles  on  his 

sire 
To  pant  for  like  fame,  and  to  glow  with  like  fire. 

Though  society's  base  were  by  faction  assailed, 
Or  the   bane  of    our  safety  by  flattery  were 

varnished  ; 
Though    the   veteran    be    seen    in    his    hamlet 

unmailed, 


80  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Retired      from      the      council,      his      laurels 
untarnished  ; 

Yet  the  foe  on  our  coast, 
Lo  !  he  flies  to  his  post ; 
His  valor  impels,  in  himself  he  's  a  host ; 
And  with  him  the  sons  of   New  England  shall 

fly, 

Resolved  to  live  honored,  or  nobly  to  die. 

Yes  ;   now  from  the  East  see  aggression  impend  ! 
Ye  venerable  shades,  your  remembrance  shall 
fire  us  ; 
Our    rights    shall    be    sacred,    our    laws    we  '11 
defend  ; 
Our  Union  shall  strengthen,  true  glory  inspire 
us ; 

If  the  bolt  be  but  hurled, 
Shall  our  flags  be  unfurled  ; 
Though  few,  yet  their  fame  shall  extend  o'er  the 

world  ; 
While  the  honors  and  laurels  that  deck  our  brave 

tars 
Shall  end  but  with  time,  and  but  fade  with  the 
stars ! 


From  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  JStandish"     81 

Thus,  oft  in  our  pilgrimage,  memory  shall  glow 
As  the  tale  of  the   past  comes  with  pleasure 
attendant ; 
And  the  boast  of   our  nation  latest  ages   shall 
know  — 
Our  fathers  in  glory,  their  sons  independent ! 
Then  glad  be  your  song, 
Ye  convivial  throng ! 
Roll,  roll  the  full  chorus  of  rapture  along  ! 
For,  long  as  old  earth  on  her  axle  shall  turn, 
On  the  altars  of  freemen  pure  incense  must  burn. 

—  Joseph  Warren  Bracket. 


FROM    "  THE   COURTSHIP   OF   MILES 
STANDISH."  i 

PRISCILLA. 

A   S  he  opened  the  door,  he  beheld  the  form 
of  the  maiden 
Seated  beside  her  wheel,  and  the  carded  wool 

like  a  snow-drift 
Piled  at  her  knee,  her  white  hands  feeding  the 
ravenous  spindle, 
1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


82  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

While  with  her  foot  on  the   treadle  she  guided 

the  wheel  in  its  motion. 
Open  wide  on  her  lap  lay  the  well-worn  psalm- 
book  of  Ains worth, 
Printed  in  Amsterdam,  the  words  and  the  music 

together ; 
Rough-hewn,  angular  notes,   like  stones  in  the 

wall  of  a  churchyard, 
Darkened  and  overhung  by  the  running  vine  of 

the  verses. 
Such  was  the  book  from  whose  pages  she  sang 

the  old  Puritan  anthem, 
She,  the   Puritan   girl,   in    the    solitude    of    the 

forest, 
Making  the  humble  house  and  the  modest  apparel 

of  homespun 
Beautiful   with   her   beauty,   and    rich   with   the 

wealth  of  her  being  ! 

"  I  have  been  thinking  all  day,"  said  gently 

the  Puritan  maiden, 
"  Dreaming  all  night,  and  thinking  all  day,  of 

the  hedge-rows  of  England,  — 
They  are  in  blossom  now,  and  the  country  is  all 

like  a  garden ; 


From  "The  Courtship  of  Mies  Standish."     83 

Thinking  of   lanes  and   fields,  and   the  song  of 

the  lark  and  the  linnet, 
Seeing   the  village  street,  and  familiar  faces  of 

neighbors 
Going  about  as  of  old,  and  stopping  to  gossip 

together. 
And.  at  the  end  of  the  street,  the  village  church. 

with  the  ivy 
Climbing    the    old    gray   tower,    and    the    quiet 

graves  in  the  churchyard. 
Kind  are  the  people  I  live  with,  and  dear  to  me 

my  religion  ; 
Still  my  heart  is  so  sad.  that  I  wish  myself  back 

in  old  England. 
You  will  say  it  is  wrong,  but  I  can  not  help  it  :  I 

almost 
Wish   myself   back   in   old   England,   I    feel   so 

lonely  and  wretched." 

THE    PROPOSAL. 

Thereupon  answered  the    youth:    ''Indeed,  I 

do  not  condemn  you  ; 
Stouter  hearts  than  a  woman's  have  quailed  in 

this  terrible  winter. 
Yours   is    tender    and    trusting,    and    needs    a 

stronger  to  lean  on  ; 


84  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

• 
So  I  have  come  to  you  now  with  an  offer  and 

proffer  of  marriage, 

Made  by  a  good  man  and  true,  Miles  Stand ish, 

the  captain  of  Plymouth  !  " 

But  as  he  warmed  and  glowed,  in  his  simple  nnd 
eloquent  language, 

Quite  forgetful  of  self,  and  full  of  the  praise  of 
his  rival, 

Archly  the  maiden  smiled  and,  with  eyes  over- 
running with  laughter, 

Said,  in  a  tremulous  voice,  "  Why  don't  you 
speak  for  yourself,  John?  " 

THE    SAILING    OF    THE    MAYFLOWER. 

Out  of  the  sea  rose  the  sun,  and  the  billows 
rejoiced  at  his  coming  ; 

Beautiful  were  his  feet  on  the  purple  tops  of  the 
mountains  ; 

Beautiful  on  the  sails  of  the  Mayflower  riding  at 
anchor, 

Battered  and  blackened  and  worn  by  all  the 
storms  of  the  winter. 

Loosely  against  her  masts  was  hanging  and  flap- 
ping her  canvas, 


From  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish."     85 

Rent   by  so    many  gales,   and   patched   by   the 

hands  of  the  sailors. 
Suddenly  from  her  side,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the 

ocean, 
Darted  a  puff  of  smoke  and   floated    seaward ; 

anon  rang 
Loud  over  field  and  forest  the  cannon's  roar,  and 

the  echoes 
Heard  and  repeated  the  sound,  the  signal  gun 

of  departure  ! 
Ah  !  but  with  louder  echoes  replied  the  hearts  of 

the  people  ! 
Meekly,  in  voices  subdued,  the  chapter  was  read 

from  the  Bible  ; 
Meekly  the  prayer  was  begun,  but  ended  in  fer- 

veut  entreaty. 
Then  from  their  houses  in  haste  came  forth  the 

Pilgrims  of  Plymouth, 
Men  and  women  and  children,  all  hurrying  down 

to  the  sea-shore, 
Eager,  with  tearful  eyes,  to  say  farewell  to  the 

Mayflower, 
Homeward  bound  o'er  the  sea,  and  leaviug  them 

here  in  the  desert. 


86  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Meanwhile  the  master,  alert,  but  with  dignified 
air  and  important, 

Scanning  with  watchful  eye  the  tide  and  the 
wind  and  the  weather, 

Walked  about  on  the  sands,  and  the  people 
crowded  about  him 

Saying  a  few  last  words,  and  enforcing  his  care- 
ful remembrance. 

Then,  taking  each  by  the  hand,  as  if  he  were 
grasping  a  tiller, 

Into  the  boat  he  sprang,  and  in  haste  shoved  off 
to  his  vessel, 

Glad  in  his  heart  to  get  rid  of  all  this  worry  and 
flurry, 

Glad  to  be  gone  from  a  land  of  sand  and  sick- 
ness and  sorrow,' 

Short  allowance  of  victual,  and  plenty  of  noth- 
ing but  gospel ! 

Lost  in  the  sound  of  the  oars  was  the  last  fare- 
well of  the  Pilgrims. 

O  strong  hearts  and  true !  not  one  went  back  in 
the  Mayflower ! 

No,  not  one  looked  back,  who  had  set  his  hand 
to  the  plowing ! 


From  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish."     87 

Soon  were   heard   on   board    the    shouts    and 

songs  of  the  sailors 
Heaving  the  windlass  round,  and  hoisting    the 

ponderous  anchor. 
Then  the  yards  were  braced,  and  all  sails  set  to 

the  west  wind, 
Blowing  steady  and  strong :    and  the  Mayflower 

sailed  from  the  harbor, 
Rounded  the  point  of  the  Gurnet,  and  leaving 

far  to  the  southward 
Island  and  cape  of  sand  and  the  field  of  the  first 

encounter, 
Took  the  wind  on  her  quarter,  and  stood  for  the 

open  Atlantic, 
Borne  on  the  send  of  the  sea  and  the  swelling 

hearts  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Long  in  silence  they  watched  the  receding  sail 
of  the  vessel, 

Much  endeared  to  them  all,  as  something  living 
and  human  ; 

Then,  as  if  filled  with  the  Spirit,  and  wrapt  in  a 
vision  prophetic, 

Baring  his  hoary  head,  the  excellent  elder  of  Ply- 
mouth 


88  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Said,   "  Let  us   pray !  "  and   they  prayed,  and 

thanked  the  Lord  and  took  courage. 
Mournfully  sobbed  the  waves  at  the  base  of  the 

rock,  and  above  them 
Bowed  and  whispered  the  wheat  on  the  hill  of 

death,  and  their  kindred 
Seemed  to  awake  in  their  graves,  and  to  join  in 

the  prayer  that  they  uttered. 
Sun-illumined  and  white,  on  the  eastern  verge  of 

the  ocean, 
Gleamed  the  departing  sail  like  a  marble  slab  in 

a  graveyard : 
Buried    beneath    it    lay    forever    all    hope    of 

escaping. 

THE    WOOING. 

"  Truly,  Priscilla,"  he  said,  u  When  I  see  you 
spinning,  and  spinning, 

Never  idle  a  moment,  but  thrifty  and  thoughtful 
of  others, 

Suddenly  you  are  transformed,  are  visibly 
changed  in  a  moment ; 

You  are  no  longer  Priscilla,  but  Bertha  the  beau- 
tiful spinner." 

Here  the  light  foot  on  the  treadle  grew  swifter 
and  swifter  ;  the  spindle 


m         "I       mrtship  of  Jfile*  Standish."     89 

:ed  an  angry  snarl,  and  the  thread  snapped 
short  in  bd       gars 

While  the  impetuous  speaker,  not  heeding  the 

mischief,  continued : 

d  are  the  beautiful  Bertha,  the  spinner,  the 

Queen    :  Helvetia : 
>he  whose  story  I  read  at  a  stall  in  the  street 

S    ithampton. 
Who.  is  die  rode  on  her  palfrey  o'er  valley  and 

meadow  and  mountain. 

-  ^   ning   her   thread   from   a    d> 
fixed  to  her  saddle. 

She    was    ?  c    thrifty    and   good   that   her   name 
passed  into  a  proverb. 

So  shall  it  be  with  your  own.  when  the  spinning- 
wheel  shall  no  Ioe^ :-:-. 

Hum  in   the   house   of   the   farmer   and   fill   its 
chambers  with  musj : 

Then  shall  the  mothers,  reproving,  relate  h: 
was  in  their  childhood. 

Praising   the   good   old   times  and  the  days    nf 
Fris  :'ae  spinner  !  " 

Straight   uprose    from   her   wheel   the  beautiful 
Puritan  maiden. 

Pleased  with  the  praise  of  her  thrift  from  him 

-  ;  .  i  ise  m  -  Hk  ;--::?:. 


90  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Drew  from  the  reel  on  the  table  a  snowy  skein 

of  her  spinning, 
Thus  making  answer,  meanwhile,  to  the  flattering 

phrases  of  Alden  : 
Li  Come,  you  must  not  be  idle  ;  if  I  am  a  pattern 

of  housewives, 
Show  yourself  equally  worthy  of  being  the  model 

of  husbands. 
Hold  this  skein  on  your  hands  while  I  wind  it, 

ready  for  knitting ; 
Then  who  knows  but  hereafter,  when   fashions 

have  changed,  and  the  manners, 
Fathers  may  talk  to  their  sons  of  the  good  old 

times  of  John  Alden  !  " 
Thus,  with  a  jest  and  a  laugh,  the  skein  on  his 

hands  she  adjusted, 
He  sitting  awkwardly  there,  with  his  arms  ex- 
tended before  him, 
She  standing  graceful,  erect,  and   winding   the 

thread  from  his  fingers, 
Sometimes  chiding  a  little  his  clumsy  manner  of 

holding, 
Sometimes    touching    his    hands,    as    she    dis- 
entangled expertly 
Twist  or  knot  in  the  yarn,  unawares,  —  for  how 

could  she  help  it?  — 


From  "The  Courtship  of  Miles  Standish."     91 

Sending  electrical  thrills  through  every  nerve  in 
his  body. 

Even  as  rivulets  twain,  from  distant  and  sepa- 
rate sources, 

Seeing  each  other  afar  as  they  leap  from  the 
rocks,  and  pursuing 

Each  one  its  devious  path,  but  drawing  nearer 
and  nearer, 

Rush  together  at  last,  at  their  trysting-place  in 
the  forest ; 

So  these  lives,  that  had  run  thus  far  in  separate 
channels, 

Coming  in  sight  of  each  other,  then  swerving 
and  flowing  asunder. 

Parted  bv   barriers   strong,  but  drawing   nearer 

mi  O  1  O 

and  nearer. 
Rushed  together  at  last,  and  one  was  lost  in  the 
other. 

THE    MARRIAGE. 

Forth  from  the  curtain  of    clouds,  from  the 
tent  of  purple  and  scarlet. 
Issued  the  sun,  the  great  high  priest,  in  his  gar- 
ments resplendent ; 


92  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Holiness  unto  the  Lord,  in  letters  of   light,  on 

his  forehead, 
Round  the  hem  of  his  robe  the  golden  bells  and 

pomegranates. 
Blessing  the  world   he   came,   and    the   bars   of 

vapor  beneath  him 
Gleamed  like  a  grate  of  brass,  and  the  sea  at  his 

feet  was  a  laver  ! 

This  was  the  wedding  morn  of    Priscilla    the 

Puritan  maiden. 
Friends  were  assembled  together ;  the  elder  and 

magistrate  also 
Graced  the  scene  with  their  presence  and  stood 

like  the  law  and  the  gospel, 
One  with  the  sanction  of  earth  and  one  with  the 

blessing  of  heaven. 
Simple   and  brief   was  the  wedding  as  that  of 

Ruth  and  Boaz. 
Softly  the  youth  and  the  maiden  repeated  the 

words  of  betrothal, 
Taking  each  other  for  husband  and  wife  in  the 

magistrate's  presence, 
After  the  Puritan  way,  and  the  laudable  custom 

of  Holland. 


On  Her  Mother.  93 

Fervently  then,  and  devoutly,  the  excellent  elder 

of  Plymouth 
Prayed   for  the  hearth  and  the  home  that  were 

founded  that  day  in  affection, 

Speaking  of   life  and   of  death,  and  imploring 

divine  benedictions. 

—  H.  W.  Longfellow. 


ON   HER  MOTHER. 

A     WORTHY  matron  of  unspotted  life, 
*  A  loving  mother  and  obedient  wife  ; 

A  friendly  neighbor,  pitiful  to  poor, 
Whom  oft  she  fed  and  clothed  with  her  store  ; 
To  servants  wisely  awful,  but  yet  kind, 
And  as  they  did,  so  they  reward  did  find  ; 
A  true  instructor  of  her  family, 
The  which  she  ordered  with  dexterity. 
The  public  meetings  ever  did  frequent, 
And  in  her  closet  constant  hours  she  spent ; 
Religious  in  all  her  words  and  waves. 
Preparing  still  for  death  till  end  of  dayes ; 
Of  all  her  children,  children  lived  to  see  ; 
Then  dying,  left  a  blessed  memory. 

—  Anne  Bradstreet. 


94  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


TWO   HUNDRED   YEARS   AGO.1 

Special  Music. 

/"^lOME,  listen  to  my  story, 
^-^     Though  often  told  before, 
Of  men  who  passed  to  glory, 

Through  toil  and  travail  sore  ; 
Of  men  who  did  for  conscience'  sake 

Their  native  land  forego, 
And  sought  a  home  and  freedom  here, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Oh,  't  was  no  earth-born  passion 

That  bade  the  adventurers  stray  ; 
The  world  and  all  its  fashion 

With  them  had  passed  away. 
A  voice  from  heaven  bade  them  look 

Above  the  things  below, 
When  here  they  sought  a  resting-place, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Oh,  dark  the  scene  and  dreary, 

When  here  they  set  them  down, 
Of  storms  and  billows  weary, 
And  chilled  with  winter's  frown t 
1  Sung  at  Plymouth,  22  December,  1820. 


Tico  Hundred  Years  Ago.  95 

Deep  moaned  the  forests  to  the  wind, 

Loud  howled  the  savage  foe, 
While  here  their  evening  prayer  arose, 

Tico  hundred  years  ago. 

'T  would  drown  the  heart  in  sorrow 

To  tell  of  all  their  woes  ; 
No  respite  could  they  borrow, 

But  from  the  grave's  repose. 
Yet  naught  could  daunt  the  Pilgrim  Band, 

Or  sink  their  courage  low, 
Who  came  to  plant  the  gospel  here, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

With  humble  prayer  and  fasting, 

In  every  strait  and  grief, 
They  sought  the  everlasting, 

And  found  a  sure  relief. 
Their  covenant  God  o'ershadowed  them, 

Their  shield  from  every  foe, 
And  gave  them  here  a  dwelling-place, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Of  fair  New  England's  glory 

They  laid  the  corner-stone  ; 
This  praise,  in  deathless  story. 

Their  grateful  sons  shall  own. 


90  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Prophetic,  they  foresaw  in  time 

A  mighty  state  should  grow 
From  them,  a  few  faint  Pilgrims  here, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

If  greatness  be  in  daring, 

Our  Pilgrim  sires  were  great, 
Whose  sojourn  here,  unsparing, 

Disease  and  famine  wait ; 
And  oft  their  treacherous  foes  combined 

To  lay  the  strangers  low, 
While  founding  here  their  commonwealth, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

Though  seeming  over-zealous 

In  things  by  us  deemed  light, 
They  were  but  duly  jealous 

Of  power  usurping  right. 
They  nobly  chose  to  part  with  all 

Most  dear  to  men  below, 
To  worship  here  their  God  in  peace, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

From  seeds  they  sowed  with  weeping 

Our  richest  harvests  rise  ; 
We  still  the  fruits  are  reaping 

Of  Pilgrim  enterprise. 


Anniversary  Stanzas.  97 

Then  grateful  we  to  them  will  pay 

The  debt  of  farne  we  owe, 
Who  planted  here  the  tree  of  life, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

As  comes  this  period  yearly, 

Around  our  cheerful  fires, 
We  '11  think  and  tell  how  dearly 

Our  comforts  cost  our  sires. 
For  them  we  '11  wake  the  votive  song, 

And  bid  the  canvas  glow, 
Who  fixed  the  home  of  freedom  here, 

Two  hundred  years  ago. 

—  James  Flint. 


A1 


ANNIVERSARY   STANZAS.1 

(1808.) 

H  !  't  is  a  barren  shore 
To  which  we  go  ; 
And  rough  the  billows  roar, 

And  tempests  blow ! 
Poor  Pilgrims  have  we  come 
Hither  to  fix  our  home  ; 
Or  must  we  farther  roam 

Through  drifting  snow  ? 

1  Supposed  to  be  sung  by  the  Pilgrims  on  arrival. 


98  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

No  !  by  this  sheltering  hill 

A  log-house  rear : 
With  clay  each  crevice  fill, 

T'  exclude  the  air  : 
There  covered  from  the  storm, 
Our  shivering  limbs  we  '11  warm, 
And  then  in  ample  form 

The  feast  prepare. 

Though  scanty  be  our  store, 
And  coarse  our  bread, 

The  God  who  heretofore 
Elijah  fed 

Will  pity  our  distress, 

And  for  our  neediness 

E'en  in  the  wilderness 
A  table  spread. 

Already  he  displays 

His  bounteous  hand, 
In  hoards  of  Indian  maize 

Beneath  the  strand. 
He  fills  the  empty  cruse, 
Fine  fish  these  seas  produce, 
And  treasures  for  our  use 
Hides  in  the  sand. 


Hymn.  99 

Since  thus  we  freely  share 

His  kind  supply, 
And  on  his  guardian  care 

Secure  rely, 
Still  may  he  succor  lend, 
And  may  his  grace  descend, 
Our  children  to  befriend, 

When  we  shall  die. 

Author  Unknown. 


HYMN.1 


Ij FATHER  supreme  of  heaven  and  earth, 
-*-       Creative  Source  of  all ! 
Whence  infant  nations  spring  to  birth, 
And  empires  rise  and  fall ! 

Thy  throne,  above  the  circling  spheres, 
Shall  stand  while  centuries  roll ; 

Nor  boundless  space,  nor  endless  years, 
Can  limit  thy  control ! 

To  him  from  whom  our  blessings  flow, 

Who  all  our  wants  supplies, 
This  day  the  choral  song  and  vow 

From  grateful  hearts  shall  rise  ! 

Sung  at  the  Albany  celebration  of  22  December,  1820. 


100  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

'T  was  he  who  led  the  Pilgrim  band 

Across  the  stormy  sea  ; 
'T  was  he  who  stayed  the  tyrant's  hand, 

And  set  our  empire  free  ! 

When  shivering  on  a  strand  unknown, 

In  sickness  and  distress, 
Our  fathers  looked  to  God  alone, 

To  save,  protect,  and  bless. 

Be  thou  our  nation's  strength  and  shield, 

In  manhood,  as  in  youth  ; 
Thine  arm  for  our  protection  wield, 

And  guide  us  by  thy  truth ! 


ODE   FOR   22d   DECEMBER. 

Tune :  St.  Martins. 

T~  ET   children  learn  the  mighty  deeds 
~*~^     Their  sires  achieved  of  old  ; 
And  still,  as  time  to  time  succeeds, 
To  them  the  tale  unfold. 

Here  while  we  fondly  trace  the  scene 

This  joyous  day  recalls, 
Let  youth  with  reverent  age  convene 

Within  these  hallowed  walls. 


Ode  for  22d  December.  101 

Their  pious  toils,  their  just  rewards, 

Returning  tributes  claim, 
While  faithful  history  records 

Each  venerable  name. 

Here  first  the  temple's  votive  fane, 

Aspiring,  sought  the  skies, 
And  here  religion's  exiled  train 

Bade  sacred  altars  rise. 

No  longer  now  the  roaming  hordes 

Unhallowed  vigils  keep ; 
No  more  affrighted  mothers  guard 

Their  cradled  infants'  sleep  : 

But  social  arts  and  peaceful  homes 

This  favored  land  endear, 
Where  fields  and  masts  and  rising  domes, 

With  scattered  grace,  appear. 

Let  musing  strangers  view  the  ground^  ^    ■^*-; 

Here  seek  tradition's  lore, 
Where  Pilgrims  walked  on  holy  ground 

With  God  in  days  of  yore  ; 

And  where  around  the  savage  tribe 
Alarmed  with  horrid  veils, 


102  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Assembling  crowds  secure  imbibe 
What  holy  legend  tells. 

Let  children  emulate  their  deeds, 

Their  choral  praises  sing  ; 

So  shall  the  Muse,  as  time  proceeds, 

Her  meed  of  incense  briug. 

—  Samuel  Davis. 


HYMN.1 


"TTTHEN  Israel's  God  had  marked  the  way 

'  *        From  persecution's  fiery  sway, 
Our  fathers  left  their  native  land, 
Sustained  by  his  almighty  hand. 

His  providence  their  trust  and  guide, 
Securely  through  the  deep  they  glide  ; 
A  world  unknown  their  hopes  explore  ; 
By  faith  they  reach  the  promised  shore. 

Fervent  the  Christian  Pilgrims  raise 
On  heathen  soil  their  shouts  of  praise  ; 
With  thankful  hearts  aloud  proclaim 
In  heathen  lands  Jehovah's  name. 

1  Sung  at  the  Albany  celebration  of  22  December,  1820. 


Selections  from  a  Hymn.  103 

Jehovah's  name  !  the  hills  rejoice, 
Glad  nature  owns  her  Maker's  voice ; 
The  wilderness  breaks  forth  in  songs 
To  him  to  whom  all  praise  belongs. 

Let  all  their  children  rise,  and  bring 
Their  grateful  incense  to  our  King ; 
In  his  fair  courts  their  voices  raise, 
And  fill  the  land  with  songs  and  praise  ! 


SELECTIONS   FROM  A   HYMN.1 

f'^\  OD  of  our  Fathers  —  Zion's  King  ! 
^-*      With  eye  propitious  now  behold, 
While  in  thy  house  thy  praise  we  sing, 
And  celebrate  thy  works  of  old. 

Like  Israel,  our  New  England  sires, 

By  cruel  persecution  driven, 
Through  dearths  and  deserts,  seas  and  fires, 

Followed  the  guiding  hand  of  heaven. 

To  heaven,  their  home,  their  prayer  ascends, 
For  they  were  Pilgrims  on  the  earth ; 

Exiled  from  country,  kindred,  friends, 
They  sought  the  land  which  gave  us  birth. 
1  Sung  at  Haverhill,  Mass.,  22  December,  1820. 


104  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

For  this  they  plowed  the  wintry  main, 
And  braved  the  dangers  of  the  deep  ; 

Cheerful  and  patient  under  pain, 

For  Christ  was  with  them  in  the  ship. 

Now  on  Columbia's  savage  coast, 

Escaped  from  shipwreck  and  from  storm, 

Behold  the  feeble,  shivering  host  — 
Their  pious  hearts  alone  were  warm. 

Heroic  souls  !     New  England's  pride  ! 

For  us  who  could  all  dangers  brave 
The}7  toiled,  they  prayed,  they  bled,  they  died 

Nor  found  their  rest  but  in  the  grave. 

May  we,  their  sons,  thy  praise  acclaim, 
The  God  our  fathers  loved  adore  ; 

Our  children's  children  fear  thy  name, 
Till  suns  shall  rise  and  set  no  more. 


HHHAT  little  Mayflower,  conveyed  by  the  winds 

And  the  rude  waters  to  our  rocky  shore, 
Shall  scatter  freedom's  seed  throughout  the  world ; 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  come 
Sinoino;  to  share  the  harvest-home  of  truth.1 

—  Lowell. 

1By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


The  First  Thanksgiving.  105 


THE   FIRST   THANKSGIVING. 

(1621.) 
EDWARD    WINSLOW'S    STORY. 

"TTTE   had  gathered  in  our  harvests, 

*  And  stored  the  yellow  grain, 

For  God  had  sent  the  sunshine, 

And  sent  the  plenteous  rain  ; 
Our  barley-land  and  corn-land 

Had  yielded  up  their  store, 
And  the  fear  and  dread  of  famine 

Oppressed  our  homes  no  more. 

As  the  chosen  tribes  of  Israel, 

In  the  far  years  of  old, 
When  the  summer  fruits  were  garnered, 

And  before  the  winter's  cold, 
Kept  their  festal  week  with  gladness, 

With  songs  and  choral  lays, 
So  we  kept  our  first  Thanksgiving 

In  the  hazy  autumn  days. 

Through  the  mild  months  of  summer, 
We  had  built  us  pleasant  homes, 

So  that  now  we  fear  no  danger, 
When  the  angry  winter  comes  ; 


106  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

We  can  sit  by  cheerful  firesides, 

And  watch  the  flickering  ray, 
When  the  storms  of  ocean  gather, 

And  howl  around  the  bay. 

We  think  with  grief  and  sadness 

Of  the  gloomy  months  gone  by, 
When  want  was  in  our  dwellings, 

And  we  saw  our  loved  ones  die  ; 
But  when  our  well-filled  garners 

Moved  all  our  hearts  to  praise, 
We  kept  our  glad  Thanksgiving 

In  the  soft  October  l  days. 

We  sent  our  keen-eyed  gunners 

To  the  forest-haunts  for  game, 
And  with  ample  wealth  of  wild  fowl, 

Rejoicing  home  they  came  ; 
And  our  good  Indian  neighbors, 

With  whom  we  live  in  peace. 
Brought  in  their  gift  of  hunted  deer, 

Our  larder  to  increase. 

1  Mr.  Tarbox  thinks  it  probable  that  the  first  Thanksgiving 
took  place  in  October.    See  article  in  New  England  for  March, 

1S79. 


The  First  Thanksgiving.  107 

And  Massasoit,  the  chieftain, 

Was  present  with  us  then  ; 
He  came  to  share  our  banquet, 

With  his  ninety  dusky  men  ; 
So  for  three  days  we  feasted, 

With  sports,  and  games,  and  plays, 
And  kept  our  first  Thanksgiving 

In  the  fair  autumnal  days. 

The  winds  breathed  gently  on  us 

From  out  the  mild  south-west ; 
They  come,  the  Indians  tell  us, 

From  the  islands  of  the  blest ; 
And  the  sun  and  moon  looked  kindly 

From  the  still  heights  above, 
As  if  to  cheer  our  banquet, 

And  bless  our  feast  of  love. 

And  our  brave  Captain  Standish, 

Brought  up  'mid  war's  alarms, 
Led  out  his  small  but  trusty  band, 

His  sturdy  men-at-arms ; 
He  showed  the  Indian  warriors 

Our  military  ways ; 
For  so  we  kept  Thanksgiving 

In  those  hazy  autumn  days. 


108  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

We  thought  of  dear  old  England, 

Dear,  though  to  us  unkind  ; 
Of  the  fond  familiar  faces 

That  we  had  left  behind  ; 
But  England  can  not  wean  us 

Back  from  our  forest  home, 
Where  we  lay  our  sure  foundations 

For  the  better  years  to  come. 

So  we  passed  the  days  in  gladness, 

In  social  joy  and  mirth, 
As  those  who  have  their  dwelling-place 

As  yet  upon  the  earth  ; 
But  to  the  Lord  our  God  we  brought 

Our  gifts  of  prayer  and  praise  ; 
So  we  kept  our  first  Thanksgiving 

In  the  dreamy  autumn  days. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


THE   FIRST   THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

A.D.  1622. 

A   ND  now,"  said  the  governor,  gazing  abroad 
•^-^-     on  the  piled-up  store 

Of   the  sheaves   that  clotted   the  clearings  and 
covered  the  meadows  o'er, 


The  First  Thanksgiving  Day.  109 

"  'T  is  meet  that  we  render  praises  because  of 

this  yield  of  grain  ; 
'T  is    meet   that    the    Lord   of    the    harvest    be 

thanked  for  his  sun  and  rain. 

"And  therefore,  I,  William  Bradford  (by  the 
grace  of  God  to-day, 

And  the  franchise  of  this  good  people) ,  gov- 
ernor of  Plymouth,  say,  — 

Through  virtue  of  vested  power,  —  ye  shall 
gather  with  one  accord 

And  hold,  in  the  month  of  November,  Thanks- 
giving unto  the  Lord. 

"He  hath  granted  us  peace  and  plenty,  and  the 

quiet  we  've  sought  so  long  ; 
He  hath  thwarted  the  wily  savage,  and  kept  him 

from  wrack  and  wrong : 
And  unto  our  feast  the  sachem  shall  be  bidden, 

that  he  may  know 
We  worship  his  own  Great  Spirit,  jvho  maketh 

the  harvests  grow. 

"So  shoulder  your  matchlocks,  masters;  there 

is  hunting  of  alLdegrees  ; 
And  fishermen,  take  your  tackle  and  scour  for 

spoil  the  seas  ; 


110  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And    maidens    and    dames    of    Plymouth,    your 

delicate  crafts  employ 
To  honor  our  first  Thanksgiving,  and  make  it  a 

feast  of  joy ! 

"  We  fail  of  the  fruits  and  dainties,  we  fail  of 

the  old  home  cheer  ; 
Ah !  these  are  the  lightest  losses,  mayhap,  that 

befall  us  here. 
But  see  !  in  our  open  clearings  how  golden  the 

melons  lie  ! 
Enrich  them  with  sweets  and  spices,  and  give  us 

the  pumpkin-pie  !  " 

So,  bravely  the  preparations  went  on  for  the 
autumn  feast : 

The  deer  and  the  bear  were  slaughtered  ;  wild 
game  from  the  greatest  to  least 

Was  heaped  in  the  colony  cabins  ;  brown  home- 
brew served  for  wine  ; 

And  the  plum  and  the  grape  of  the  forest  for 
orange  and  peach  and  pine. 

At  length  came   the   day   appointed ;    the  snow 

had  begun  to  fall, 
But  the  clang  of  the  meeting-house  belfry  rang 

merrily  over  all, 


Tlie  First  Tlianltsyiving  Day.  Ill 

And  summoned  the  folk  of  Plymouth,  who  has- 
tened with  glad  accord 

To  listen  to  Elder  Brewster  as  he  fervently 
thanked  the  Lord. 

la  his  seat  sate  Governor  Bradford  ;  men,  ma- 
trons, and  maidens  fair ; 

Miles  Standish  and  all  his  soldiers,  with  corslet 
and  sword  were  there  ; 

And  sobbing  and  tears  and  gladness  had  each  in 
its  turn  the  sway, 

For  the  grave  of  sweet  Rose  Standish  o'ershad- 
owed  Thanksgiving  day. 

And    when   Massasoit,   the    sachem,   sate    down 

with  his  hundred  braves, 
And   ate  of  the   varied   riches    of  gardens    and 

woods  and  waves, 
And   looked   on   the   granaried   harvest,  with  a 

blow  on  his  brawny  chest, 
He  muttered  :   'w  The  Good  Spirit  loves  his  white 

children  best !  " 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


112'  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


ODE.1 

rpHE   Pilgrim  Fathers  —  where  are  they  ? 
-*-      The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore  ; 
Still  roll  in  the  bay  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrims'  sleep 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide  ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride  ; 
But  the  snow-white  sail,  that  he  gave  to  the 
gale 

When  the  heavens  looked  dark,  is  gone  : 
As  an  angel's  wing,  through  an  opening  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile  —  sainted  name  ! 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
1  For  the  celebration  of  22  December,  1824. 


Ode.  113 

And  the  moon's  cold  light  as  it  lay  that  night, 

On  the  hill-side  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head  ; 

But  the  Pilgrim  —  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest. 

AVhen  summer  's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm   breast   is    in   verdure 
dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  the}7  lie. 
The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  that  hallowed  spot  is  cast : 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled  : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed   of   the   brave   who   have 
bled, 
And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay  where  the  Mayflower 
lay 
Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

—  John  Pierpont. 


114  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


H 


HYMN.1 

Tune  :  Scots,  tolia  ha\ 

OLY   spot !  where  glowing  choirs 
Oft  have  wakened  grateful  lyres, 
Oft  have  kindled  grateful  fires, 
O'er  the  Pilgrim's  grave. 

Once  again  we  press  the  shore 
Where  our  fathers  sternly  swore 
Ocean  should  forget  to  roar, 

Ere  they  would  be  slaves. 

Hail  the  dawn  when  Freedom's  rays 
Hushed  Columbia's  icy  face, 
Sweeter  strains  arise  of  praise 

Than  from  Memnon's  harp. 

Hail  the  spot  —  our  sires'  retreat ! 
Hail  the  waves  that  round  them  beat ! 
Hail  the  rock  that  bore  their  feet, 

When  their  wanderings  ceased  ! 

Fancy  paints  in  yonder  bay 
The  bark  that  broke  the  Pilgrims'  way, 
The  cradle  where  our  nation  lay 
In  her  infant  days. 
1  Sung  at  Cilgrim  Hall  at  the  celebration  of  1824. 


Hymn.  115 

See  the  boat  approach  the  land, 
Freighted  with  the  pious  band, 
See,  they  kneel  upon  the  strand, 
Warm  with  gratitude. 

Vent  your  fury,  wind  and  flood, 
Freedom's  bark  is  safely  moored, 
Freedom's  sons  with  hearts  assured, 
Now  their  work  begin. 

Gloomy  scenes  await  the  brave  ; 
Savage  foes  around  them  rave  ; 
Carver  fills  an  early  grave  ; 

Hope  well-nigh  expires. 

But  to  Faith's  reluming  eye, 
Visions  bright  in  prospect  lie  ; 
E'en  a  triumph  't  were  to  die, 
If  in  conscience  free. 

Still  above  the  sacred  dead, 
Future  crowds  shall  yearly  tread  ; 
Blooming  youth  and  hoary  head 
Meet  around  their  urns. 

Oft  shall  Genius'  fluent  tongue 
Trace  the  story,  swell  the  song ; 
Oft  amidst  the  listening  throng 
Thrill  the  feeling  soul. 


116  JSongs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Ye  who  've  sprung  from  noble  blood, 
Men  who  spurned  the  tyrant's  rod, 
Men  who  bowed  to  none  but  God, 
Here  your  vows  repeat : 

"  By  their  pious  shades  we  swear,' 
By  their  toils  and  perils  here, 
We  will  guard  with  jealous  care 
Law  and  Liberty." 

—  William  P.  Lunt. 


THE   TWENTY-SECOND    OF    DECEMBER. 

(1S29.) 

"TTTILD   was  the  day  ;  the  wintry  sea 

*  ^       Moaned  sadly  on  New  England's  strand, 
When  first  the  thoughtful  and  the  free, 
Our  fathers,  trod  the  desert  land. 

They  little  thought  how  pure  a  light, 
With  years,  should  gather  round  that  day  ; 
How  love  should  keep  their  memories  bright, 
How  wide  a  realm  their  sons  should  swav. 


Original  Hymn.  117 

Green  are  their  bays  ;  but  greener  still 

Shall  round  their  spreading  fame  be  wreathed, 

And  regions,  now  untold,  shall  thrill 

With     reverence,      when      their     names     are 
breathed. 

Till  where  the  sun,  with  softer  fires, 

Looks  ou  the  vast  Pacific's  sleep, 
The  children  of  the  Pilgrim  sires 

This  hallowed  day  like  us  shall  keep. 

—  William  Cullen  Bryant. 


ORIGINAL  HYMN. 

ONG-   persecuted  and  oppressed, 
-^     The  exiled  Pilgrim  band, 
In  search  of  liberty  and  rest, 
Came  to  a  desert  land. 

God  deigned  their  enterprise  to  bless, 
And  gave  the  wished  repose  ; 

And,  glad  for  them,  the  wilderness 
Soon  blossomed  as  the  rose. 


118  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Schools,  churches,  and  the  ministry 

Their  earliest  cares  engage  ; 
The  glory  of  their  times  to  be, 

And  of  each  coming  age. 

The  benefits  which  hence  arise, 

On  us  heaven  kindly  showers, 
And  shows  us,  by  the  rich  supplies, 

Our  fathers'  God  is  ours. 

—  Thaddeus  Mason  Harris. 


THE  PRICE  OF   A   LITTLE   PILGRIM. 

(A.D.  1621.) 

/~1  O,  wind  the  signal-horn,  and  bid 
^-^      My  band  of  trusty  men 
Come  stern  and  grim,  in  fighting  trim, 
That  I  may  choose  me  ten. 

'*  They  may  not  wait  to  kiss  their  wives, 
For  there  's  a  life  at  cost,  — 
A  tender  one,  —  the  widow's  son, 
Ralf  Billiugton,  is  lost  \ 


The  Price  of  a  Little  Pilgrim.  119 

uThe  pretty  lad  that  often  drew 
My  sword,  and  vowed  that  yet 
He  'd  march  away  some  summer  day 
And  capture  Aspinet." 

So  spake  the  Plymouth  governor, 

And  at  the  signal  sound 
Forth  came  the  band  at  his  command, 

And  crowded  eager  round. 

"  Ten  only,"  Governor  Bradford  said, 
"  Will  fill  the  boat  enow  ; 
I  want  but  ten  strong-handed  men, 
Now  which  of  you  will  go  ?  " 

They  shouted,  "I!"  "  And  I !  "  "  And  I !  " 
"  Nay,  hold  !  "  he  bade,  "  I  '11  find 

Some  Gideon  test  to  mark  the  best ; 
The  rest  shall  bide  behind. 

"  Ye  who  are  fathers,  —  ye  whose  homes 
Are  glad  with  children's  joy,  — 
Your  quest,  I  wot,  will  slacken  not, 
Till  ye  have  found  the  boy." 

The  shallop  manned,  they  searched  the  coast, 

They  beat  the  tangled  wild  ; 
And  sought  to  trace,  in  many  a  place, 

Some  tidings  of  the  child. 


120  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

They  steered  through  silent,  sheltered  coves, 
They  skimmed  the  marshes  wide  ; 

And  all  around  the  shallows  wound, 
With  Squanto  for  their  guide. 

At  length  they  saw  a  curl  of  smoke 

Float  o'er  the  distant  trees  ; 
And  all  about,  the  whoop  and  shout 

Came  blown  upon  the  breeze. 

Scarce  had  they  landed,  when  the  cry 

Of  "  Yengese  !  "  rent  the  air  ; 
And  even  before  they  touched  the  shore, 

The  foe  was  yelling  there, 

Each  with  his  arrow  drawn  to  head. 

4t  Stay  !  stay  !  "  cried  Squanto,  "  Let 
True  braves  be  friends  ;  our  sachem  sends 

To  you  his  calumet. 

"  The  mother  in  her  wigwam  weeps, 
Bereft  of  peace  and  joy  ; 
Now  we  would  know  if  it  be  so 
That  ye  have  found  her  boy  ?  " 

"  Ugh  !  "  growled  the  wily  Aspinet ; 
"  What  will  the  Yengese  grant, 
If  I  set  loose  the  white  papoose, 
And  bring;  him  from  Nahant?  " 


The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.      121 

"  Name  what  ye  will !  "  the  captain  cried, 
"  So  much  we  prize  his  life  !  " 
The  sachem  heard,  and  with  brief  word 
Muttered,  "  A  knife  !  a  knife  !  " 

"  Good  !  "  and  the  captain  grimly  smiled 
Aside  ;  "and  yet  I  trow 
The  dame  will  be  scarce  pleased  that  we 
Should  rate  her  boy  so  low  ! 

"  Go,  Squanto,  hither  fetch  the  lad  ; 
And  lest  it  will  not  do, 
For  one  jack-knife  to  buy  a  life, 
Why,  Squanto,  give  him  two  !  " 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


THE   LANDING   OF   THE  PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

fTTHE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 

On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 
And  the  woods,  against  a  stormy  sky, 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 


122  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true  hearted,  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ! 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert's  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ! 

And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 
To  the  anthem  of  the  free  ! 

The  ocean-eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam, 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home  ! 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair, 

Amidst  that  Pilgrim  band  ; 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 


New  England.  123 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine  ! 

Ay  !  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ! 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found, 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 

—  Mrs.  Felicia  Hemans. 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

TZTAIL  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast ; 
The  sepulcher  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host. 


124  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

No  slave  is  here  ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 
Our  coast. 

Our  fathers  crossed  the  ocean's  wave 

To  seek  this  shore  ; 
They  left  behind  the  coward  slave 
To  welter  in  his  living  grave  ; 
With  hearts  unbent,  aud  spirits  brave, 

They  sternly  bore 
Such  toils  as  meaner  souls  had  quelled, 
But  souls  like  these  such  toils  impelled 

To  soar. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore  ; 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free  ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  Liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 

She  bore.   • 

—  J.  O.  Percival. 


The  First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish.     125 

THE    FIEST   PROCLAMATION   OF    MILES 
STANDISH. 

(November,  a.d.  1620.) 

I I  O  !  "  quoth  the  stout  Miles  Standish,     - 

J — L     As  he  stood  on  the  Mayflower's  deck, 
And  gazed  on  the  sandy  coast-line, 
That  loomed  as  a  misty  speck 

On  the  edge  of  the  distant  offing,  — 

"  See  !  yonder  we  hare  in  view 
Bartholomew  Gosnold's  headlands. 

'T  was  in  sixteen  hundred  and  two 

"That  the  Concord  of  Dartmouth  anchored 
Just  there  where  the  beach  is  broad, 
And  the  merry  old  captain  named  it 
(Half-swamped  by  the  fish)  Cape  Cod. 

"And  so,  as  his  mighty  headlands 
Are  scarcely  a  league  away, 
What  say  you  to  landing,  Sweetheart, 
And  having  a  washing-day? 

"For  did  not  the  might}7  leader, 
TTko  guided  the  chosen  band, 
Pause  under  the  peaks  of  Sinai, 
And  issue  his  strict  command 


126  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

"  (For  even  the  least  assoilment 
Of  Egypt  the  Spirit  loathes) , 
Or  ever  they  entered  Canaan, 

The  people  should  wash  their  clothes  ? 

"The  land  we  have  left  is  noisome, 
And  rank  with  the  smirch  of  sin  ; 
The  land  that  we  seek  should  find  us 
Clear-vestured  without  and  within." 

Dear  heart  —  and  the  sweet  Rose  Standish 
Looked  up  with  a  tear  in  her  eye  ; 

She  was  back  in  the  flag-stoned  kitchen 
Where  she  watched,  in  the  da}7s  gone  by, 

Her  mother  among  her  maidens 

(She  should  watch  them  no  more,  alas  !), 
And  saw  as  they  stretched  the  linen 

To  bleach  on  the  Suffolk  grass. 

In  a  moment  her  brow  was  cloudless, 
As  she  leaned  on  the  vessel's  rail, 

And  thought  of  the  sea-stained  garments, 
Of  coif,  and  of  farthingale  ; 

And  the  doublets  of  fine  Welsh  flannel, 
The  tuckers  and  homespun  gowns, 

And  the  piles  of  the  hosen  knitted 
From  the  wool  of  the  Devon  Downs. 


The  First  Proclamation  of  Miles  Standish.     127 

So  the  matrons  aboard  the  Mayflower 

Made  ready  with  eager  hand 
To  drop  from  the  deck  their  baskets 

As  soon  as  the  prow  touched  land. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  mothers, 

On  a  Monday,  the  record  says, 
Ordain  for  their  new-found  England 

The  first  of  her  washuig-days. 

And  there  did  the  Pilgrim  fathers, 
With  matchlock  and  axe  well  slung, 

Keep  guard  o'er  the  smoking  kettles 
That  propt  on  the  crotchets  hung. 

For  the  trail  of  the  startled  savage 

Was  over  the  marshy  grass, 
And  the  glint  of  his  e}7es  kept  peering 

Through  cedar  and  sassafras. 

And  the  children  were  mad  with  pleasure 
As  they  gathered  the  twigs  in  sheaves, 

And  piled  on  the  fire  the  fagots, 
And  heaped  up  the  autumn  leaves. 

Do  the  thing  that  is  next,  saith  the  proverb, 

And  a  nobler  shall  yet  succeed  : 
'T  is  the  motive  exalts  the  action  ; 

'T  is  the  doing,  and  not  the  deed; 


128  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

For  the  earliest  act  of  the  heroes 
Whose  fame  has  a  world-wide  sway 

Was  —  to  fashion  a  crane  for  a  kettle, 
And  order  a  washing-day  ! 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


THE   PILGRIMS'   DAY.1 

"TTTITH  joy  I  heard  them  say 
*  '        When  roving  far  abroad, 
On  this  their  landing-day 

We  '11  praise  the  Pilgrims'  God. 

I  knew  the  cry, 
I  '11  join  the  song, 
Thy  courts  we  '11  throng, 
O  Thou  most  high  ! 

This  day  let  all  awake, 

And  sing  the  mighty  dead 
Who,  first,  for  Zion's  sake, 
O'er  raging  oceans  fled. 

Had  not  our  God 
Preserved  that  flock, 
Safe  on  the  rock 

They  ne'er  had  trod. 

iBy  a  member  of  the  New  England  Society  of  New  York. 


Ode.       '  129 

At  once  their  temples  rose, 

Our  schools  were  founded  then, 
Nor  could  their  mightier  foes 
Withstand  those  valiant  men  : 

But  vain,  their  skill, 
And  vain  their  sword, 
Had  not  the  Lord 

Upheld  them  still. 

Peace  to  that  holy  ground  ! 

That  consecrated  spot ! 
The  first  our  fathers  found 
Where  tyrants  trouble  not. 

We  '11  sound  abroad, 
Where'er  we  roam, 
The  Pilgrims'  home, 
The  Pilgrims'  God. 


ODE.1 

Tune:  America. 

O  ONS  of  New  England  sires  ! 
^     Why  do  your  altar-fires 
Flame  up  on  high  ; 
1  For  the  34th  Anniversary  of  the  New  England  Society. 


130  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Why  from  your  festal  board 
Wakes  the  loud  anthem,  pour'd 
Joyous,  with  one  accord, 
Winged  for  the  sky? 

Not  for  the  voice  that  spoke 
Triumph,  when  Britain's  yoke 

Burst  with  your  chains  ; 
Not  for  the  heroes  brave, 
Bleeding  by  Charles's  wave, 
Not  for  the  patriots'  grave, 

Wake  ye  your  strains  ; 

But  for  the  Pilgrim  band, 
They  who  from  Leyden's  land 

Dared  the  rough  sea  ; 
Braving  the  ocean  vast, 
Scorning  the  wintry  blast, 
So  they  might  find,  at  last, 

Room  for  the  free. 

Hark,  how  the  thunder  peals  ! 
See,  how  the  brave  ship  reels, 

Whirled  in  the  brine  ! 
Courage  !  the  God  that  wears 
Storm-robes,  the  good  man  spares. 
Pilgrim  !  he  hears  your  prayers, 

Joy  to  your  line  ! 


Ode.  131 

Nobly  the  Mayflower  bows, 
While  the  dark  wave  she  plows 

On  to  the  West ; 
Till,  from  the  tempest's  shock, 
Proudly  she  lands  her  flock, 
Where  on  old  Plymouth  Rock, 

Freedom  found  rest. 


Lo  !  from  yon  starry  sphere, 
Spirits  in  light  appear, 

Glorious,  but  few. 
Pilgrims  !  we  see  you  now, 
Fathers  !  to  you  we  bow, 
Hear,  then,  your  children's  vow 

Still  to  be  true. 


Join,  brothers,  heart  and  hand, 
Sons  of  the  Pilgrim  band  ! 

Swear  now  to  be 
All  that  your  fathers  sought, 
All  that  their  virtue  wrought, 
So  shall  your  sons  be  taught 

How  to  be  free  ! 

—  Rufus  Dawes. 


132  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS:   AN   ODE. 

rpHEY  come  —  that  coming  who  shall  tell? 
The  eye  may  weep,  the  heart  may  swell, 
But  the  poor  tongue  in  vain  essays 
A  fitting  note  for  them  to  raise. 
We  hear  the  after-shout  that  rings 
For  them  who  smote  the  power  of  kings ; 
The  swelling  triumph  all  would  share  ; 
But  who  the  dark  defeat  would  dare, 
And  boldly  meet  the  wrath  and  woe 
That  wait  the  unsuccessful  blow? 
It  were  an  envied  fate,  we  deem, 
To  live  a  land's  recorded  theme, 

When  we  are  in  the  tomb. 
We,  too,  might  yield  the  joys  of  home, 
And  waves  of  winter  darkness  roam, 

And  tread  a  shore  of  bloom, 

Knew  we  those  waves,  through  coming  time, 
Should  roll  our  names  to  every  clime  ; 
Felt  we  that  millions  on  that  shore 
Should  stand,  our  memory  to  adore. 
But  no  glad  vision  burst  in  light 
Upon  the  Pilgrims'  aching  sight ; 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers:  An  Ode.  133 

Their  hearts  no  proud  hereafter  swelled  ; 
Deep  shadows  veiled  the  way  they  held  ; 
The  yell  of  vengeance  was  their  trump  of  fame  ; 
Their  monument  —  a  grave  without  a  name. 

Yet.  stroug  in  weakness,  there  they  stand, 

On  yonder  ice-bound  Rock, 
Stern  and  resolved,  that  faithful  band, 

To  meet  fate's  rudest  shock. 

Though  anguish  rends  the  father's  breast, 
For  them,  his  dearest  and  his  best, 

AVith  him  the  waste  who  trod  ; 
Though  tears  that  freeze,  the  mother  sheds, 
Upon  her  children's  houseless  heads, 

The  Christian  turns  to  God. 

In  grateful  adoration  now 

Upon  the  barren  sands  they  bow. 

What  tongue  of  joy  e'er  woke  such  prayer 

As  bursts  in  desolation  there  ? 

What  arm  of  strength  e'er  wrought  such  power 

As  waits  to  crown  that  feeble  hour  ? 

There  into  life  an  infant  empire  springs  ; 
There  falls  the  iron  from  the  soul ; 
There  Liberty's  youug  accents  roll 

Up  to  the  King  of  kings. 


154  Songs  of  the  Pihjrims. 

To  fair  creation's  farthest  bound 

That  thrilling  summons  yet  shall  sound  ; 

The  dreaming  nations  shall  awake, 

And  to  their  center  earth's  old  kingdoms  shake. 

Pontiff  and  prince,  your  sway 

Must  crumble  from  that  day  ; 

Before  the  loftier  throne  of  heaven 

The  hand  is  raised,  the  pledge  is  given^ 

One  monarch  to  obey,  one  creed  to  own  — 

That  monarch,  God,  that  creed,  his  Word  alone. 

Spread  out  earth's  holiest  records  here, 
Of  days  and  deeds  to  reverence  dear  ; 
A  zeal  like  this  what  pious  legends  tell ! 
On  kingdoms  built 
In  blood  and  guilt, 
The  worshipers  of  vulgar  triumph  dwell ! 

But  what  exploits  with  theirs  shall  page 
"Who  rose  to  bless  their  kind, 

Who  left  their  nation  and  their  age 
Man's  spirit  to  unbind  ! 

Who  boundless  seas  passed  o'er, 
And  boldly  met,  in  every  path, 
Famine,  and  frost,  and  heathen  wrath, 

To  dedicate  a  shore 


The  Pilgrim  Fathers :  An  Ode.  135 

Where  Piety's  meek  train  might   breathe   their 

vow, 
And  seek  their  Maker  with  an  nnshamed  brow  ; 
Where  Liberty's  glad  race  might  proudly  come, 
And  set  up  there  an  everlasting  home  ! 
Oh,  many  a  time  it  hath  been  told, 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old. 
For  this  fair  Poetry  hath  wreathed 

Her  sweetest,  purest  flower  ; 
For  this  proud  Eloquence  hath  breathed 

His  strain  of  loftiest  power  ; 
Devotion,  too,  hath  lingered  round 
Each  spot  of  consecrated  ground, 

And  hill  and  valley  blessed  ; 
There,  where  our  banished  fathers  strayed, 
There,  where  they  loved,  and  wept,  and  prayed, 

There,  where  their  ashes  rest. 

And  never  may  they  rest  unsung 
While  Liberty  can  find  a  tongue. 
Twine,  Gratitude,  a  wreath  for  them, 
More  deathless  than  the  diadem, 
Who  to  life's  noblest  end 

Gave  up  life's  noblest  powers, 
And  bade  the  legacy  descend 
Down,  down  to  us  and  ours  ! 

Charles  Sprague. 


136  jSowjs  of  the  Pibjrlius. 


THE   PILGRIM   MOTHERS. 

r  I  ^HE  sculptor's  art  has  striv'u 

And  bards  have  strung  their  lyres 
To  celebrate  the  deeds 

Of  our  brave  Pilgrim  vires; 

But  written  in  the  sand, 

As  fleeting  their  few  names, 

The  virtues  who  shall  paint 
Of  our  meek  Pilgrim  dames  f 

Wife,  widow,  matron,  maid  — 
Who  braved  the  stormy  sea, 

And  worthy  to  become 
The  mothers  of  the  free  ! 

With  their  more  hardy  mates  — 

Age  leaning  upon  youth, 
From  whose  soft  eyes  beamed  forth 

The  soul  of  love  and  truth ! 

And  when  the  Ma3'flower's  bark 
Neared  the  unfriendly  strand, 

Was  not  a  icomcni  first 
Upon  the  Rock  to  land  ? 


The  Pihjrim  Mothers.  137 

While  later  o'er  the  deep, 

Her  infant  by  her  side, 
Sweet  Alice  Southworth  came 

To  be  the  Governor's  bride. 

As  from  the  vessel's  side 

The  Pilgrims  disembark. 
Borne  o'er  the  waves  dry  shod, 

Eeligion's  sacred  ark, 

So,  hallowed  by  their  feet 

Yon  islet  at  length  trod, 
The  Lord's  day  first  they  spent 

In  prayer  and  praise  to  God  ; 

Then  sent  a  chosen  few 

Each  inlet  to  explore, 
And  find  a  place  to  land 

Upon  the  hostile  shore. 

Miles  Staxdish  — -  captain  bold, 

Who  was  no  carpet  knight, 
And  modest  still  as  brave.  — 

A  hero  in  the  fight, — 

(Whose  "  Courtship  "  our  loved  bard 

So  quaintly  could  rehearse, 
Its  memory  enshrined 

In  his  idyllic  verse, 


138  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And  tell  by  proxy  how 
John  Alden  ill  had  sped 

His  wooing,  who,  maid's  wit, 
Priscilla.  Mullins  wed) , 

First  offering  thanks  to  God 
Upon  his  bended  knee, 

With  grave  and  anxious  mien 
Supporting  tenderly 

A  woman's  fragile  form? 

Amid  December's  snows, 
Transferred  to  alien  soil  — 

New  England's  loveliest  Rose  ! 

Around  whose  rugged  stem 
Its  tendrils  close  entwine, 

Grace  wedded  still  with  strength, 
The  oak  clasped  by  the  vine. 

Vain  were  it,  too,  to  tell 
Of  that  first  fainter  dread, 

When  scarce  enough  survived 
E'en  to  inter  the  dead. 

With  pining  want  and  pain 
And  sickness  oft  laid  low  ; 

Assailed  by  savage  beasts, 
And  the  more  savage  foe. 


The  Pilgrim  Mothers.  139 

» 

When  Carver  first  of  all  — 

Who  led  the  little  band, 
The  pillar  of  the  state  — 

Went  to  the  better  land, 

With  "  Elder  Brewster,"  sage, 
Whose  "  Chair  "  too  we  revere. 

Next,  Bradford,  annalist, 
Its  chief  who  knew  no  fear  ! 

So,  let  the  shaft  arise, 

Of  native  granite  wrought, 
To  our  brave  sires  devote, 

And  lofty  as  their  thought, 

Upon  yon  windy  height, 

With  pious  tears  besprent, 
Which  speaks  of  faith  and  hope  — 

The  Pilgrims'  Monument  ! 

Nor  less  the  gentler  sex, 

In  modest  garb  arrayed, 
Who  both  could  "  toil "  and  "  spin," 

The  matron  and  the  maid. 

The  "  age  of  homespun"  theirs, 

Of  which  we  glibly  prate, 
Whose  virtues —  "  homespun ,"  too  — 

We  well  may  imitate  ! 


140  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

On  that  lone  ancient  hill 

Whose  base  the  ocean  laves, 

Concealed  from  friend  or  foe, 

They  sleep  in  "  unmarked  graves." 

Save  the  few  spirits  rare 

Whose  names  to  our  lips  rise, 

Who  live  to  bless  the  race 
With  loving  ministries  ; 

Before  whose  luster  bright 

The  warrior's  glory  pales  : 
The  Clara  Bartons  famed, 

Or  Florence  Nightingales  ! 

With  anthem  and  with  psalm 

So  celebrate  their  worth  — 
The  heroines  whose  type 

Is  perished  from  the  earth  ! 

God  of  our  Pilgrim  sires, 

For  their  faith  we  praise  thee  ! 

Joined  with  our  Pilgrim  dames, 
Through  blest  eternity  ! 

—  E.  W.  Bobbins. 


Song  of  the  Pilgrims.  141 


"SONG   OF   THE   PILGRIMS. 

rpHE  breeze  has  swelled  the  whitening  sail, 
-*-      The  blue  waves  curl  beneath  the  gale, 
And,  bounding  with  the  wave  and  wind, 
"We  leave  old  England's  shores  behind. 
Leave  behind  our  native  shore, 
Homes,  and  all  we  loved  before. 

The  deep  may  dash,  the  winds  may  blow, 

The  storm  spread  out  its  wings  of  woe, 

Till  sailors'  eyes  can  see  a  shroud 

Hung  in  the  folds  of  every  cloud  ; 
Still,  as  long  as  life  shall  last, 
From  that  shore  we  '11  speed  us  fast. 

For  we  would  rather  never  be, 
Than  dwell  where  mind  can  not  be  free, 
But  bows  beneath  a  despot's  rod 
Even  where  it  seeks  to  worship  God. 

Blasts  of  heaven,  onward  sweep  ! 

Bear  us  o'er  the  troubled  deep  ! 

Oh,  see  what  wonders  meet  our  eyes  ! 
Another  land,  and  other  skies  ! 
Columbian  hills  have  met  our  view  ! 


142  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Adieu  !  Old  England's  shores,  adieu  ! 
Here,  at  length,  our  feet  shall  rest, 
Hearts  be  free,  and  homes  be  blessed. 

As  long  as  yonder  firs  shall  spread 
Their  green  arms  o'er  the  mountain's  head  — 
As  long  as  yonder  cliffs  shall  stand, 
Where  join  the  ocean  and  the  land  — 

Shall  those  cliffs  and  mountains  be 

Proud  retreats  for  liberty. 

Now  to  the  King  of  kings  we  '11  raise 
The  paean  loud  of  sacred  praise  ; 
More  loud  than  sounds  the  swelling  breeze, 
More  loud  than  speak  the  rolling  seas  ! 

Happier  lands  have  met  our  view  ! 

England's  shores,  adieu  !  adieu  ! 

—  T.  C.  Upham, 


O 


THE   MAYFLOWER. 

LITTLE  fleet !  that  on  thy  quest  divine 
Sailedst  from   Palos  one    bright   autumn 
morn, 
Say,  has  old  Ocean's  bosom  ever  borne 
A  freight  of  Faith  and  Hope  to  match  with  thine  ? 


The  Mayflower.  143 

Say,  too,  has  heaven's  high  favor  given  again 
Such  consummation  of  desire  as  shone 
About  Columbus,  when  he  rested  on 
The  new-found  world,  and  married  it  to  Spain? 

Answer,  thou  refuge  of  the  freeman's  need, 
Thou  for  whose  destinies  no  kings  looked  out, 
Nor  sages  to  resolve  some  mighty  doubt, 
Thou  simple  Mayflower  of  the  salt  sea  mead  ! 

When  thou  wert  wafted  to  that  distant  shore, 
Gay  flowers,  bright  birds,  rich  odors,  met  thee 

not ; 
Stern  nature  hailed  thee  to  a  sterner  lot, 
God  gave  free  earth  and  air,  and  gave  no  more. 

Thus  to  men  cast  in  that  heroic  mold 
Came  empire  such  as  Spaniard  never  knew, 
Such  empire  as  beseems  the  just  and  true  ; 
And,  at  the  last,  almost  unsought,  came  gold. 

But  He  who  rules  both  calm  and  stormy  days 
Can   guard   that  people's    heart,    that    nation's 

health, 
Safe   on   the    perilous    heights    of    power    and 

wealth, 
As  in  the  straitness  of  the  ancient  ways. 

—  Lord  Houghton. 


144  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


HYMN.i 

Tune:  Tamworth. 

O  !  the  rising  star  of  Freedom 
~^     Once  our  Pilgrim  Fathers  blest ; 
By  her  light  ordained  to  lead  them 
To  the  land  of  promised  rest. 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Traveling  towards  the  distant  West. 

While  their  countless  toils  enduring, 

Faith  the  promise  kept  in  sight ; 
For  themselves  and  sons  securing 
Home  and  country,  truth  and  light. 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Pointing  to  Jehovah's  might. 

Now  the  relics  round  us  lying, 

Grateful  children  guard  their  clay  ! 
While  their  spirits,  never  dying, 
Hope  has  borne  on  wings  away. 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Star  of  heaven ! 
Guiding  to  a  brighter  day. 

i  For  22  December,  1831. 


St.  Botolph's  Chimes.  145 

Raise  we  honors  to  their  merit, 

Temples  sculptured  with  their  uame  ? 
No  !  their  virtues  to  inherit, 

Seals  their  bright  and  conscious  fame. 
Star  of  heaven  ! 
Star  of  heaven ! 
High  they  shine  with  ceaseless  flame. 

See  the  lights  around  us  gleaming, 

Still  to  guide  the  pilgrim's  eyes  ; 

See  the  star  of  empire  beaming, 

Bids  their  children's  glory  rise  ! 

Star  of  heaven  ! 

Star  of  heaven  ! 

Glowing  still  in  Western  skies. 

—  Samuel  Deane. 


ST.   BOTOLPH'S    CHIMES. 

(A.D.  1640.) 

A    PURITAN   AND    HIS    LITTLE    DAUGHTER    SPEAK     ON 

THEIR    CHURCHWARD    WAT. 

/~\  father,  I  wish  I  could  go  to  church 
^-^     As  we  did  in  the  dear  old  times, 
When  we  waited  to  hear  the  Sunday  cheer 
Of  St.  Botolph's  morning  chimes  ! 


146  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

'T  was  lovely  to  walk  through  the  leafy  lanes 

In  the  beautiful  English  May  ; 
And  I  marvel  now,  as  I  think  of  it,  how 

You  ever  could  come  away. 

I  want  to  go  back  to  my  oaken  seat, 

"Where  the  great  round  oriel  shed 
Its  crimsons  and  blues  and  golden  hues, 

All  over  my  hands  and  head. 

As  I  watched  their  glory,  the  service  seemed 

So  holv  and  rich  and  bright ! 
How  tender  the  glow  beside  this  snow. 

All  sheeted  and  dead  and  wj^ite  ! 

And  the  carbines,  father  ;  they  only  hung, 

At  home,  in  the  great  oak  hall ; 
Here,  we  take  them  abroad  to  the  house  of  God, 

Yet  shiver  with  fear,  for  all ! 

Oh,  to  mix  with  the  crowd  in  the  dear  old  street, 

In  safety  and  warmth  and  ease  ! 
Oh,  to  wait  for  the  swells  of  St.  Botolph's  bells, 

In  Boston  beyond  the  seas  ! 

Nay,  daughter  !     It  irks  my  heart  to  hear 

Thee  hanker  as  those  of  old, 
With  tears  on  thy  cheeks,  for  Egyptian  leeks, 

Because  thou  art  scared  and  cold. 


St.  Botolph's  Chimes.  147 

Why,  where  is  the  hero-spirit,  child? 

Thy  mother  forsook  her  Devon 
For  an  exile  here,  with  a  trust  as  clear 

As  if  she  were  going  to  heaven  ! 

Yea,  over  thy  face  the  oriel's  glint 
Might  shimmer  with  warming  glow  ; 

But  for  me  the  touch  of  the  priestly  clutch 
Was  chiller  than  Shawmut's  snow  ! 

I  'm  willing  to  fight  for  leave  to  pray, 
And  wade  with  my  carbine  slung 

On  my  shoulder,  and  so  all  chimes  forego 
St.  Botolph  hath  ever  rung, 

To  carry  thee  thus  to  church  to-day, 

As  stoutly  my  strong  arm  can, 
And  order  m}?  faith  as  my  conscience  saith, 

A  free  and  a  fearless  man  ! 

But,  sweetheart,  patiently  thou  must  wait, 
For  I  dream  of  an  end  of  pains, 

In  which  thou  shalt  walk  in  tender  talk, 
Through  better  than  English  lanes, 

With  comrades  as  kind  as  ever  strayed 

Beside  thee  o'er  Lincoln  leas, 
Or  listened  betimes  to  St.  Botolph's  chimes, 

In  Boston  beyond  the  seas  ! 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


148  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


I 


ANNIVERSARY   HYMN.1 

Tune :  St.  Martins. 

O  !  where  of  old  the  fathers  dwelt, 


-^     From  home  and  temples  dear, 
And  oft  in  prayer  devoutly  knelt, 
Their  children  would  appear. 

And  round  thine  altar,  God  of  grace  ! 

With  reverent  homage  stand, 
Through  ages  past  thy  love  to  trace 

In  this  our  favored  land. 

By  faith  inspired  with  steadfast  mind, 

To  shun  oppression's  rage, 
The  Pilgrims  here  their  steps  inclined, 

Bright  heralds  of  their  age. 

No  golden  mines  their  visions  lured, 
No  conqueror's  pride  was  theirs  ; 

The  soul's  pure  worship  once  secured, 
Repays  their  generous  cares. 

Here  Freedom's  sacred  altars  rose, 

Reared  by  the  Pilgrim  sires  ; 
We  '11  guard  them  still  from  threatening  foes, 

And  light  anew  their  fires. 

1  For  the  celebration  22  December,  1834. 


The  Men  of  Plymouth.  149 

Great  God  !  thine  all-pervading  sway, 

Each  passing  age  controls. 
Oh,  may  thy  grace  illume  our  day, 

And  ever  cheer  our  souls  ! 

—  William  S.  Russell. 


THE   MEN   OF  PLYMOUTH.1 

rpHESE  are  the  iron  men  that  broke 
-*-      Ground,  where  the  Indian's  war-fire  curled  ; 
These  spurned  the  princely,  priestly  yoke, 

These  are  the  fathers  of  a  world. 
O  men  of  God's  own  image,  say  ! 
Can  glorious  men  thus  pass  away? 

No,  never  !     Send  expansive  sight ! 

From  Labrador  to  Carib's  Sea  — 
That  vision,  so  sublime  and  bright, 

Of  regions  teeming  with  the  free, 
Shows  but  the  influence  of  these  men 
Who  sought  the  sands  of  Plymouth  then. 

1  An  extract  from  a  loajrer  poem.    1836. 


150  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

No,  never  !     Each  traditional  spot 

Tells  where  they  wept,  or  sank  to  rest ; 

Yet  were  such  silent,  or  forgot 

The  place  their  Pilgrim  footsteps  pressed, 

Their  names  should  live,  nor  Time  would  mock 
The  record  of  the  Plymouth  Rock. 

—  William  B.  Tappan. 


FOR  FOREFATHERS'   DAY. 

Tune :  Old  Hundred. 

(~\  God  !  beneath  thy  guiding  hand, 
^-^     Our  exiled  fathers  crossed  the  sea  ; 
And  when  they  trod  the  wintry  strand, 

With  prayer  and  psalm  they  worshiped  thee. 

Thou  heard'st,  well  pleased,  the  song,  the  prayer, 
Thy  blessing  came  ;  and  still  its  power 

Shall  onward  to  all  ages  bear 
The  memory  of  that  holy  hour. 


Ode.  151 

What  change  !     Through  pathless  wilds  no  more 
The  fierce  and  naked  savage  roams  ; 

Sweet  praise,  along  the  cultured  shore, 
Breaks  from  ten  thousand  happy  homes. 

Lands,  freedom,  truth,  and  faith  in  God 
Came  with  those  exiles  o'er  the  waves ; 

And  where  their  Pilgrim  feet  have  trod, 
The  God  they  trusted  guards  their  graves. 

And  here  thy  name,  O  God  of  love  ! 

Their  children's  children  shall  adore, 
Till  these  eternal  hills  remove, 

And  spring  adorns  the  earth  no  more. 

—  Leonard  Bacon. 


ODE. 


]\JEW  ENGLAND  !  receive  the  heart's   trib- 
-^-^      ute  that  comes 

From  thine  own  Pilgrim  sons  far  away. 
More  fondly  than  ever  our  thoughts  turn  to  thee, 

Upon  this  thine  old  festival  day. 
We   would  rescue   with   social   observance   and 
song, 


152  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Awhile  from  oblivion's  grave, 
The  loved  scenes  of  our  youth,  and  those  bless- 
ings recall 
Which  our  country  and  forefathers  gave. 

Can  distance  efface,  or  can  time  ever  dim 

Remembrances  crowding  like  these? 
They   have  grown  with   our   growth,    and    have 
ministered  strength, 

As  the  roots  send  up  life  to  the  trees. 
Then  be  honored  the  day  when  the   Mayflower 
came, 

And  honored  the  charge  that  she  bore, 
The  stern,  the  religious,  the  glorious  men, 

Whom  she  set  on  our  rough  native  shore. 

New  England,  advance  in  thine  onward  career, 

With  thine  inborn,  all-conquering  will : 
Still  triumph  o'er  nature's  unkindiiest  form 

By  thine  energy,  patience,  and  skill. 
Thou  shalt  grow  to  thy  height  as  thou  ever  hast 
grown, 

O'er  the  storms  of  ephemeral  strife, 
And  thy  spirit,  undying,  shall  cease  not  to  be 

The  dee})  germ  of  a  continent's  life. 

—  Samuel  Gilman. 


Burial  Hill.  153 


BURIAL  HILL.1 

rpHEY  in  storms  of  dark  December, 
-*-      Scions  of  a  martyr  stock, 
Praised  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies, 
Kneeling  there  upon  the  rock. 

Praised  him  while  the  blast  was  roaring, 
While  the  surges  smote  the  strand ; 

Praised  him  while  their  hearts  were  yearning 
With  their  love  for  fatherland. 

In  the  wilds  of  death  they  wrestled, 
Seeking  what  by  faith  they  saw  ; 
"  Little  matter  what  the}7  died  on  — 
Beds  of  down,  or  locks  of  straw." 

Little  recked  they  pain  or  peril, 

Ocean  wave  or  scaffold  block, 
They  who  bore  the  name  of  Pilgrim, 

They  who  built  upon  the  rock. 

For  afar  they  caught  a  vision  — 

Morning  merging  into  noon  ; 
Snow-wreaths  melting  into  blossoms, 

Dark  December  changed  to  June. 

John  Milton  Holmes. 

1  From  a  longer  poem.    1865. 


154  JSonys  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   VISION.1 

FN  the  hour  of  twilight  shadows, 
"■-     The  Puritan  looked  out ; 
He  thought  of  the  ' '  bloody  savages  " 

That  lurked  all  round  about, 
Of  Wituwamut's  pictured  knife, 

And  Pecksvot's  whooping  shout ; 
For  the  baby's  flesh  was  tender, 

Though  his  father's  arms  were  stout. 

His  home  was  a  freezing  cabin, 

Too  bare  for  the  hungry  rat ; 
Its  roof  was  thatched  with  ragged  grass, 

And  bald  enough  of  that. 
The  hole  that  served  for  casement 

AVas  glazed  with  an  ancient  hat ; 
And  the  ice  was  gently  thawing 

From  the  log  whereon  he  sat. 

Along  the  dreary  landscape, 

His  eyes  went  to  and  fro  ; 
The  trees  all  clad  in  icicles, 

The  streams  that  did  not  flow. 

1  For  the  Plymouth  celebration,  22  December,  1846. 


The  Pilgrim's  Vision.  155 

A  sudden  thought  flashed  o'er  him  — 

A  dream  of  long  ago  — 
He  smote  his  leathern  jerkin, 

And  murmured,  "  Even  so  !  " 

"  Come  hither,  God-be-glorified, 

And  sit  upon  my  knee  ; 
Behold  the  dream  unfolding, 

Whereof  I  spake  to  thee 
By  the  winter's  hearth,  in  Leyden, 

And  on  the  stormy  sea  ; 
True  is  the  dream's  beginning, 

So  may  its  ending  be  ! 

' '  I  saw  in  the  naked  forest, 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast ; 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 
Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 
The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When,  lo  !  the  vision  passed. 

"Again  mine  eyes  were  opened, 
The  feeble  had  waxed  strong  ; 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 
The  remnant  was  a  throng. 


156  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  son°-. 

"They  slept,  the  village  fathers, 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore  ; 
When,  far  adown  the  steep  of  time, 

The  vision  rose  once  more. 
I  saw,  along  the  winter  snow, 

A  spectral  column  pour  ; 
And,  high  above  their  broken  ranks, 

A  tattered  Has;  thev  bore. 

"  Their  leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high  ; 
The  light  of  heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye. 
These  were  a  nation's  champions, 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try  ; 
God  for  the  right !  I  faltered, 

And  lo  !  the  train  passed  by. 

"Once  more,  the  strife  was  ended, 
The  solemn  issue  tried  ; 
The  Lord  of  hosts,  his  mighty  arm 
Had  helped  our  Israel's  side. 


The  Pilgrim's  Vision.  157 

Gray  stone  and  grassy  hillock 

Told  where  the  martyrs  died  ; 
And  peace  was  in  the  borders 

Of  Victory's  chosen  bride. 

"A  crash,  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking-  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  St.  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  seas, 
But  who  is  she  whose  streaming  bars 

Roll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 

"Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  try  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

"  Oh,  trembling  Faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 
A  heavenly  torch  is  thine  ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away 
And  paler  orbs  decline, 


158  Soiu/s  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Shall  still  the  fier}^  pillar's  ray 

Along  thy  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  Western  Palestine. 

"I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on, 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  cape  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers.' 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  Northern  shores, 
From  Eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave 

The  continent  is  ours  !  " 

He  ceased,  the  grim  old  Puritan, 

Then  softly  bent  to  cheer 
The  Pilgrim  child  whose  wasting  face 

Was  meekly  turned  to  hear  ; 
And  drew  his  toil-worn  sleeve  across, 

To  brush  the  manly  tear 
From  cheeks  that  never  changed  in  woe, 

And  never  blanched  in  fear. 

The  weary  Pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown  ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strewn. 


The  Pilgrim's  Vision.  159 

The  drifting  soil,  the  moldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown, 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or  raining  in  the  summer's  wind, 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled  ! 

Yea,  when  the  frowning  bulwarks 

That  guard  this  holy  strand 
Have  sunk  beneath  the  trampling  surge 

In  beds  of  sparkling  sand, 
While  in  the  waste  of  ocean 

One  hoary  rock  shall  stand, 
Be  this  its  latest  legend  : 

Here  was  the  Pilgrim's  land. 

—  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 


160  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


A 


HYMN   FOR  22d   DECEMBER. 

Tuue :  Lyons. 

ROCK   in   the   wilderness    welcomed    our 
sires, 

From  bondage  far  over  the  dark  rolling  sea  ; 
On  that  holy  altar  they  kindled  the  fires, 

Jehovah,  which  glow  in  our  bosoms  for  thee  ! 

Thy  blessings  descended  in  sunshine  aud  shower, 
Or  rose  from  the  soil  that  was  sown  by    thy 
hand  ; 

The  mountain  and  valley  rejoiced  in  thy  power, 
And  heaven  encircled  and  smiled  on  the  land. 

The  Pilgrims  of  old  an  example  have  given 
Of  mild  resignation,  devotion,  and  love, 

Which  beams  like  the  star  in  the  blue  vault  of 
heaven, 
A  beacon-light  hung  in  the  mansions  above. 

In  church  and  cathedral  we  kneel  in  our  prayer, 
Their  temple  and  chapel  were  valley  aud  hill ; 

But  God  is  the  same  in  the  aisle  or  the  air, 
And  he  is  the  Rock  that  we  lean  upon  still. 

—  Author  Un  Jen o urn . 


Burial  Hill.  161 


BURIAL  HILL.1 

A   H  !  then  all  tenderly  we  thought, 
-£-*-     We  thought  with  pride  and  wonder, 
How  —  Freedom's  price  divinely  taught  — 

They  stood  unflinching  yonder  ; 

Though  wintry  chillness  reigned  around, 
And  wintry  winds  were  howling, 

Though  only  savage  man  was  found, 
And  savage  beasts  were  prowling. 

Anew  we  felt  their  hopes  and  fears, 
When  want  and  sickness  wasted  ; 

As  through  the  lingering  weary  years, 
Of  sorrow's  cup  they  tasted. 

Grand  souls  !  that  with  heroic  will 
The  waves  of  trouble  breasted  ; 

Not  e'en  did  women  falter,  till 
Beneath  that  turf  they  rested. 

For  God,  for  truth,  for  man,  they  bore 
Loss,  exile,  grief,  and  danger ; 

As  Christ,  the  Lord  they  loved,  of  yore 
Accepted  earth's  low  manger. 

1  A  portion  of  a  longer  poem.    1865. 


162  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And  there  above  their  sacred  dust 
Whose  names  shall  never  perish, 

We  vowed  their  faith,  a  holy  trust 
For  all  mankind,  to  cherish. 

O  God,  who  heard'st  our  prayer  and  song 
'Neath  heaven's  high  dome  ascending, 

Bid  us  in  thine  own  might  be  strong, 
For  that  pure  faith  contending. 


Oh,  wake,  ye  sons  of  Pilgrim  sires ! 

Go,  live  in  power  and  beauty 
The  life  sublime  their  faith  inspires  ; 

Its  watchword  —  God  and  duty  ! 

—  May  Palmer. 


THE   MAYFLOWER. 

QAD  Mayflower  !  watched  by  winter  stars 
^     And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars,    . 
And  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 


The  Mayflower.  163 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wildwood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May  ? 

Yet  "  God  be  praised  !  "  the  Pilgrim  said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry. and  dead, 

"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  !  " 

"  God  wills  it,  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er, 
For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 

Unchanged,  vour  leaves  unfold 
Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 

Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 


164  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

The  Pilgrims'  wild  and  wintry  day 

Its  shadow  round  us  draws ; 
The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 

Our  Freedom's  strus^fflinff  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
And,    through    dead    leaves    of    hope,     shall 
spring 
Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 

—  John  G.  Wliittier. 


FAST   DAY   SPORT. 

(A.D.  1648.) 

OHAME,  shame  upon  ye,  godless  lads, 
^     To  take  your  matchlocks  down, 
And  to  the  forest  hie  for  game, 

When  all  the  folk  in  town 
Were  gathered  in  the  meeting-house, 

In  Sabbath  garb  arrayed, 
To  fast  aud  pray  this  solemn  day, 

As  Governor  Winthrop  bade  ! 


Fast  Day  Sport.  165 

Ye  think,  perchance,  I  failed  to  mark 

Some  empty  places  there  ; 
Nay,  nay,  I  do  my  duty,  lads, 

Though  ye  may  mock  and  stare. 
I  ween,  despite  your  many  smirks, 

When  all  is  said  and  done. 
Ye  '11  think  the  hare  ye  dangle  there 

Was  hardly  worth  the  fun/ 

I  've  copied  fair  your  names,  young  sirs, 

Trespass,  —  one  shilling  nine,  — 
And  governor's  orandsons  though  ve  be, 

I  wot  ye  '11  pay  the  fine  ; 
It  should  be  doubled  for  the  sin 

Of  such  example  set : 
I  'm  sorely  sad  a  Boston  lad 

So  strangely  could  forget. 

Ye  did  not  ?  ha  !  the  bold  offence 

Was  a  deliberate  one? 
Ye  meant  to  scout  the  Fast  day,  when 

Ye  went  with  dos;  and  o-un  ? 
Out  on  such  worldly  lawlessness  ! 

Ye  well  deserve  to  be 
Left  in  the  lurch  with  king  and  church 

In  Suffolk  bv  the  sea  ! 


166  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

It  ought  to  make  the  crimson  shame 

Your  braggart  faces  flood, 
When  ye  remember  that  your  veins 

Are  warm  with  Winthrop  blood  ! 
Now  had  ye  been  Sir  Harry's  chicks, 

To  do  and  dare  with  such 
Pert  looks  as  send  my  hair  on  end, 

I  had  not  cared  so  much. 

But  Governor  Winthrop's  grandsons  !  heigh  ! 

How  godless  folk  will  prate  ! 
He  can  not  make  his  household  keep 

The  Fast  day  of  the  state  ! 
Nay,  do  I  hear  aright?  ye  say 

He  gave  ye  leave  to  go 
To-day  and  track  (alack!  alack!) 

The  rabbits  through  the  snow? 

Ye  look  so  roguish,  scarce  I  think 

Ye  mean  the  word  ye  spake  ; 
But  since  ye  've  dared  with  bold  affront 

The  righteous  law  to  break, 
Though  even  the  governor's  self  forgot 

His  bounden  duty,  mine 
Is  clear  ;  ye  '11  pay  this  very  day 

Each  farthing  of  your  fine. 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


The  Puritan  Maiden's  May-day.  167 

THE   PURITAN    MAIDEN'S    MAY-DAY. 

(A.D.  1686.) 

A    H,  well-a-day  !  the  grandains  say 
-*— *-     That  they  had  merry  times 
AYhen  thev  were  young,  and  gavlv  rung 
The  May-day  morning  chimes. 

Before  the  dark  was  gone,  the  lark 

Had  left  her  grassy  nest. 
And,  soaring  high,  set  all  the  sky 

Athrob  from  East  to  West ! 

The  hawthorn  bloom  with  rich  perfume 

Was  whitening  English  lanes, 
The  dewy  air  was  every-where 

Alive  with  May-day  strains  ; 

And  laughing  girls  with  tangled  curls, 
And  eyes  that  gleamed  and  glanced, 

And  ruddy  boys  with  mirth  and  noise 
Around  the  May-pole  danced. 

Ah  me  !  the  sight  of  such  delight, 

The  joy.  the  whirl,  the  din, 
Such  merriment,  such  glad  content  — 

How  could  it  be  a  sin  ? 


168  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

When  children  crowned  the  May-pole  round 

With  daisies  from  the  sod, 
What  was  it,  pray,  but  their  child's  way 

Of  giving  thanks  to  God  ? 

The  wild  bee  sups  from  buttercups 

The  honey  at  the  brim  ; 
May  I  not  take  their  buds  and  make 

A  posy  up  for  him  ? 

If,  as  I  pass  knee-deep  through  grass 
This  May-day  cool  and  bright, 

And  see  away  on  Boston  Bay 
The  lines  of  shimmering  light, 

I  gather  there  great  bunches  fair 

Of  mayflower  as  I  roam, 
And  with  them  round  my  forehead  crowned, 

Go  ladened  with  them  home  ; 

And  then,  if  Bess  and  I  should  dress 

A  May-pole  with  our  wreath, 
And  just  for  play,  this  holiday, 

Should  dare  to  dance  beneath, 

My  father's  brow  would  frown  enow  : 
"  Child  !  why  hast  thou  a  mind 

For  popish  days  and  Romish  ways, 
And  lusts  we  've  left  behind?  " 


Forefathers1  Day.  160 

Our  grandam  says  that  her  May-days, 

AVith  mirth  and  song  and  flowers. 
And  lilt  of  rhymes  and  village  chimes, 
Were  happier  far  than  ours. 

If.  as  I  ween,  upon  the  green 

She  danced  with  merry  din. 
Yet  lived  to  be  the  saint  I  see. 

How  can  I  count  it  sin  ? 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


FOREFATHERS'   DAY.1 

n^HE  wandering  sun.  ranging   through    south- 
-^       ern  skies, 

lias  touched  his  wintry  solstice.     O'er  the  north 
Fall  the  chill  shadows,  and  the  sickly  days. 
Tale-faced  and  wan.  are  quickly  lost  in  night. 
From  the  cold  heavens,  through  lonelv  midnight 

hours, 
The  glittering  stars  look  down  on  fields  of  ice. 
On  plains  and  mountains  wrapped  in   robes    of 

snow. 

1  Read  at  Boston  Congregational  Club  Festival.   December, 


170  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Along  the  headlands  of  our  rock-bound  coast 
Tne  wild  waves  roll,  and    the    hoarse    murmurs 

break, 
Telling  the  lonely  dwellers  by  the  sea 
Of  far-off  winds  and  storms  and  tossing  barks. 
Now  is  the  midnight  of  our  northern  year. 
Nature  has  laid  aside  her  flowery  robes, 
And  clothed  herself  in  soberest  attire. 
All  sights    and    sounds,    in    earth    and    air    and 

heaven, 
Recall  those  stern  historic  days  of  old 
When   our    brave    Pilgrim    sires,    battling     with 

waves, 
Struggling  with  icy  winds  and  adverse  fate, 
Made  their  rude  entry  on  these  western  shores. 
Now,  in  our  well-filled  homes,  by  genial  fires, 
We  read  the  tale,  —  tell  o'er  the  honored  names, 
Those  grand  and  simple  names  that  can  not  die, 
And  proudly  trace  our  ancient  lineage. 

We  read  the  critics  too,  those  sharp-eye  1  men, 
Who  search  all  precious  ointments  through  and 

through, 
Not  for  the  ointment's  sake,  to  prove  its  worth, 
But,  if  so  be,  to  find  out  and  report 
Some  smallest  fly  that  may  have  lodged  therein. 


Forefathers'  Day.  171 

Our  Pilgrim  critics  are  an  ancient  brood, 
Hovering  about  the  rock  from  age  to  age, 
With  nods  portentous  and  with  croaking  voice. 
'T  is  well  to  read  these  critics,  well  to  know 
Their  inmost   thought,    and    follow    where    they 

lead. 
Guided  by  them  and  walking  in  their  light, 
Let  us  now  re-construct  our  Pilgrim  sires, 
And  show"  what   men    our    fathers    should   have 

been. 

The  Pilgrim  Father  should  have  been  a  man 
Who  had  no  private  prejudice  to  smother, 

Built  on  a  large,  expansive,  liberal  plan, 

To  whom  one  thing  were  good  as  any  other  ; 

Who,  had  he  lived,  back  when  the  race  began, 
Would  not  have  minded  when  Cain  killed  his 
brother  ; 

A  man  so  very  round  and  full  and  pious 

As  to  be  free  from  every  shade  of  bias. 

He  should  have  patronized  with  equal  zeal 
Every  adventurous  and  random  rover  ; 

Have  freely  shared  his  dear-bought  common  weal 
With  everv  renegade  that  might  come  over  : 


172  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Ready  to  grant  each  wanderer's  appeal, 

Whether    he    came    from    Holland,     Dublin, 
Dover ; 
A  man  who  held  it  strict  impartiality 
Not  to  distinguish  virtue  from  rascality. 

Once  here,  our  Pilgrim's  first  and  foremost  thought 
Ought  to  have  been  to  please  his  Indian  neigh- 
bor ; 

What  though  the  cunning,  lazy  savage  sought 
To  gain  his  living  without  care  or  labor ; 

Still,    our    good    Pilgrim    ought    not    to    have 
brought 
To  this  new  world  his  musket  and  his  saber ; 

It  surely  was  not  generous  and  good 

To  frighten  these  poor  children  of  the  wood. 

They  were  the  dwellers  on  this  western  soil 
Centuries  before  the  Mayflower  went  a-cruis- 
ing; 

If  they  preferred  to  live  exempt  from  toil, 

Who  had  the  right  to  hinder  them  from  choos- 
ing? 

Or,  if  they  forced  their  wives  to  slave  and  moil, 
Beating  or  killing  any  one  refusing, 

The  Pilgrim  Father  was  a  stranger  here, 

What  arrogance  in  him  to  interfere  ! 


Forefathers'  Day.  173 

He  should  have  landed  on  this  western  shore 
With  less  of  Bible,  and  with  more  of  science  ; 

Bible  is  good,  but  had  he  pondered  o'er 

What  science  taught,  and  made  that  his  reli- 
ance, 

He  could  have  reared,  from  his  exhaustless  store, 
An  empire  grand,  to  bid  the  world  defiance  ; 

Great  pity  that  with  chances  so  prodigious 

He  should  have  been  a  trifle  too  religious. 

Given,  just  scientific  lore  enough 

Simply  to  analyze  that  famous  bowlder 

Called  Plymouth  Rock,  where  "  breaking  waves 
dashed  "  —  rough  — 
That  rock  which  thrills    with    awe    each    new 
beholder ; 

Given,  the  mica,  quartz,  and  other  stuff 
Employed  and  used  by  the  primeval  molder 

To  forge,  by  aid  of  underground  caloric, 

That  marvelous  rock  now  grown  to  be  historic ; 

Given,  the  power  to  tell,  like  modern  sages, 
Somewhere    within    five     hundred     thousand 
years 

How  old  that  bowlder  is,  and  what  the  stages 
By  which  it  journeyed  to  these  Plymouth  piers, 


174  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

To  trace  its  starting-point  in  by-gone  ages, 

And  show  how  easy  every  thing  appears, — 
Items  like  these  are  solid  information, 
Well  fitted  to  build  up  a  mighty  nation. 

But  we  go  prating  on  about  this  rock, 
Its  mental,  moral,  and  religious  uses  ; 

We  treat  it  like  some  huge  aesthetic  block, 

Whose  very  name  to  boundless  good  conduces  : 

We  feel  a  kind  of  sentimental  shock 
When  any  scoffer  offers  his  abuses : 

From  sixteen  hundred  twenty  to  this  day, 

The  rock  has  served  in  this  peculiar  way. 

Here  endeth  the  first  lesson.     Turn  the  page 
And  we  may  find  all  freshly  spread  before  us 

The  counter-charges  of  a  later  age, 

Which  may,  by  contrast,  comfort  and  restore  us; 

Critics  in  war  with  critics  will  engage 
Long  as  the  centuries  go  rolling  o'er  us  : 

o  Co 

If  we  could  tarry  till  their  strife  were  ended, 
Our  Pilgrim  sires  would  surely  be  defended. 

These  counter-charges  which  we  have  in  hand 
Seem,  in  their  contrasts,  just  a  little  fuuny. 

The  Pilgrims,  now,  are  not  a  pious  band  ; 

They  came,  it  seems,  intent  on  making  money. 


Forefathers''  Day.  175 

They  fancied  that  this  rough  New  England  land 
Might   prove    to    them    a   land   of    milk    and 
honey ; 
And  so  they  ventured  o'er  a  stormy  ocean 
To  pay  at  Mammon's  shrine  their  pure  devotion. 

They  were  a  wandering  clan  that  could  not  rest 
Or  live  contented  in  their  own  condition  ; 

And  when  they  left  their  ancient  English  nest, 
They  only  showed  their  restless  disposition  ; 

Ready  to  journey  east  or  journey  west 
Upon  their  money-making  expedition, 

They  tried  old  Holland,  and,  ignobly  failing, 

Away  to  Plymouth  Rock  they  went  a-sailing. 

But  know   ye   well,    O    critics,    ye    spend    your 

strength  for  nought ; 
All   harmless   fall   the    weapons    your    cunning 

hands  have  wrought ; 
The  men  ye  seek  to  injure  have  reached  a  height 

sublime, 
Whereon  they  sit  secure  against  the  accidents 

of  time  : 
The  rolling  years  have  tried  them,  the  centuries 

have  passed, 
And  clothed  them  with  a  glory  that  shall  forever 

last. 


176  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

The  wandering  birds  that  fly  afar  are  wise  to 

know  their  hour  ; 
Seeking  the  fields   of  upper   air   and   thwarting 

human  power, 
They  voyage   on   unguided    by    compass    or   by 

chart 
Along  these  clear  and  azure  heights,  safe  from 

the  hunter's  dart ; 
A  law  thev  know  not  moves    them    straight    to 

their  distant  nest, 
UnerringhT  they  journey  and  find  their  promised 

rest. 

So  the  old  patriarchs  journeyed,  moved  by  the 

call  of  God, 
Earth's     wanderers,     unknowing     the     pathway 

which  the}7  trod  : 
And   so    the    Pilgrims   journeyed,    leaving    their 

native  land, 
Going  they  knew   not  whither    by    some    divine 

command  ; 
With  faith  and  loving  patience  they   trod   their 

weary  way, 
And  so  their  names  stand  glorified    before    our 

eyes  to-day. 


The  Pilgrims.  177 

The  best  and  purest  wisdom  is  wisdom  of   the 

heart 
Untouched   by   human    cunning,     unstained    by 

earthly  art ; 
He  that  by  craft  will  save  his  life  shall  lose  it 

at  the  end  ; 
He  that  will  lose  his  life  shall  find  an  everlasting 

.  friend  : 
God  has  his  chosen   children,    his    favorites    on 

the  earth, 
Raised  out  of  toil  and   sorrow  by    an    immortal 

birth. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


THE   PILGRIMS. 

/"ANCE  a  handful,  brave  and  daring 
^-^     As  young  eagles  from  their  nest, 
Sought  for  human  right  and  freedom 
Over  ocean's  foaming  crest. 

Giving  friendship,  love,  and  kindred. 
All  the  sacred  worth  of  tears, 

Giving  God  their  faith  as  treasure, 
Stored  for  all  the  coming  years. 


178  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


God  and  Freedom,"  was  the  watchword 

Of  that  noble  Pilgrim  band, 
And  God  led  them  to  that  freedom 

By  his  own  almighty  hand. 

Rocked  by  cold  winds,  lashed  by  billows, 
Plunging  where  the  white  waves  seethe, 

He  who  rules  the  tempest  guides  them, 
His  strong  arm  is  underneath. 

O'er  that  ship  an  angel  hovered 

As  the  stormy  voyage  ran  ; 
Caught  the  tears  of  suffering  woman, 

Heard  the  sighs  of  suffering  man. 

Round  that  ship  a  glory  lingers, 
Sailing  on  from  year  to  year  ; 

Round  its  masts  bright  rainbows  circle, 
Caught  from  every  sacred  tear. 

Not  the  Rock  alone  is  holy, 

AVhere  their  chrismal  prayer  was  made, 
For  the  hand  of  God,  in  blessing, 

Over  all  the  land  was  laid. 

Though  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  slumber, 
Still  their  spirits  are  not  dead ; 

Far  beyond  the  inland  rivers 

Now  their  children's  children  tread. 


Memory  of  our  Fathers.  179 

Now  agnation  calls  them  blessed, 
For  the  freedom  which  they  bought, 

And  the  world  has  been  made  better 
For  their  lesson,  nobly  taught. 

Hope,  O  Christian,  through  all  trials ; 

Through  life's  tempests  on  the  way  ; 
Hearts  will  bless  you  on  the  morrow, 

For  your  triumphs  yesterday. 

Like  the  sword  of  Standish,  bearing 
Only  God's  grand  message,  "  Peace," 

Spreading  love  among  the  nations 
Until  wars  and  tumults  cease. 

—  Sylvia  Broivn. 


MEMORY   OF   OUR   FATHERS. 

TN  pleasant  lands  have  fallen  the  lines 
-*~     That  bound  our  goodly  heritage, 
And  safe  beneath  our  sheltering  vines 
Our  youth  is  blest,  and  soothed  our  age. 

What  thanks,  O  God,  to  thee  are  due, 
That  thou  didst  plant  our  fathers  here  ; 

And  watch  and  guard  them  as  they  grew, 
A  vineyard  to  the  Planter  dear. 


180  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

The  toils  they  bore  our  ease  have  wrought ; 

They  sowed  in  tears  —  in  joy  we  reap  ; 
The  birthright  they  so  dearly  bought 

We  '11  guard,  till  we  with  them  shall  Bleep. 

Thy  kindness  to  our  fathers  shown 
In  weal  and  woe  through  all  the  past, 

Their  grateful  sons,  O  God,  shall  own, 
While  here  their  name  and  race  shall  last. 

—  Flint. 


THE   MAYFLOWER  ON   NEW    ENG- 
LAND'S   COAST. 

rpiIK  Mayflower  on  New  England's  coast  has 

-*-      furled  her  tattered  sail, 

And  through  her  chafed  and  moaning  shrouds 
December's  breezes  wail ; 

Yet  on  their  icy  deck  behold  a  meek  but  daunt- 
less band, 

Who,  for  the  right  to  worship  God,  have  left 
their  native  land  ; 

And  to  this  dreary  wilderness  this  glorious  boon 
they  bring  — 

A  church  without  a  bishop,  and  a  state  ivithout  a 
king ! 


The  Mayflower  on  New  England's  Coast.     181 

Those   daring   men,    those   gentle     wives,     say, 

wherefore  do  they  come  ? 
Why  rend  they  all  the   tender   ties   of   kindred 

and  of  home? 
'T  is    heaven    assigns    their    noble    work,    man's 

spirit  to  unbind  : 
They  come  not  for  themselves  alone,  they  come 

for  all  mankind ; 
And  to  the  empire   of    the   West    this  glorious 

boon  thev  brinsj  — 
A  church  without  a  bishop ,  and  a  state  without  a 

king  ! 

Then  prince  and  prelate,  hope  no  more  to  bend 
them  to  your  sway  ; 

Devotion's  lire  inflames  their  breasts  while  free- 
dom points  their  way  ; 

And  in  their  brave  heart's  estimate,  't  were  bet- 
ter not  to  be 

Than  quail  beneath  a  despot  where  the  soul 
can  not  be  free  ; 

And  therefore  o'er  a  wintry  wave  those  exiles 
come  to  bring 

^1  church  ivithout  a  bishop,  and  a  state  without  a 
king  ! 


182  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And  still  their  spirit,  in  their  sons,  with  freedom 

walks  abroad ; 
The  Bible  is  our  only  creed,  our  only  sovereign, 

God! 
The  hand  is  raised,  the  word  is  spoke,  the  joyful 

pledge  is  given, 
And  boldly  on  our  banner  floats,  in  the  free  air 

of  heaven, 
That  motto  of  our  sainted  sires,  and  loud  we  '11 

make  it  ring  : 
A  church  without  a  bishop,  and  a  state  tuithout  a 

king  ! 

—  Charles  Hall. 


MEMORIAL   HYMN.1 

T7URM  as  the  rock  beneath  their  feet, 
~*~       The  saintly  Pilgrims  stood  ; 
On  thee,  O  God,  their  trust  was  stayed, 
Thy  voice  their  steadfast  souls  obeyed, 
And  thou  didst  answer  when  they  prayed 

Beside  the  wintry  flood  ; 
Didst  give  them  strength  in  faith  sublime 
To  work  the  noblest  work  of  time  ! 

1  Written  for,  and  sung  at,  the  memorial  celebration  in  Bos- 
ton, 21  December,  1870. 


Memorial  Hymn.  183 

To-day  by  centuries  we  count 

The  slowly  measured  years  ; 
And  lo  !  wide  o'er  a  smiling  land 
Fair  homes  and  sacred  temples  stand  ; 
Where  frowned  rude  wastes  and  forests  grand, 

A  peopled  realm  appears  ; 
O'er  hills  and  plains,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Sweep  thronging  millions  of  the  free  ! 

Tears  for  the  days  of  deadly  strife  ; 

Tears  for  the  young  and  brave, 
Who,  fired  by  freedom's  battle-cry, 
Flung  broad  her  banner  to  the  sky, 
Content  on  gory  fields  to  lie, 

That  they  her  home  might  save  ; 
That  chains  from  everv  hand  might  fall, 
And  love's  wide  arms  encircle  all ! 

As  thou  didst  hear,  O  faithful  God, 

The  prayer  our  fathers  said, 
So  hear  us  while,  like  them,  to  thee 
We  for  our  children  bend  the  knee  ; 
Let  them  to  distant  ages  be 

As  if  the  Pilgrims,  dead, 
In  them  did  wake  and  live  again  ; 
Their  shields  the  shields  of  mighty  men  ! 


184  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

O   Christ !  be  thine  the  Pilgrims'  land  ! 

Reign  thou  from  shore  to  shore  ; 
Here  let  thy  Church,  beneath  thy  sway, 
Grow  fairer  till  her  bridal  day, 
AVlien  thou  shalt  come  in  glad  array  — 

Her  Lord  —  as  mountains  o'er, 
In  splendor  robed,  the  morning  sun 
Ascends  his  flaming  course  to  run  ! 

Praise  God  !  praise  him  who  changeth  not ! 

Our  fathers'  God  and  ours  ; 
To  thee  our  thankful  praise  we  bring, 
Ancient  of  days  !  Our  glorious  king  ! 
Let  earth  and  heaven  together  sing 

With  all  their  raptured  powers, 
Till  listening  stars  shall  catch  the  strain, 
And  shout  the  chorus  back  again  ! 

—  May  Palmer 


FOREFATHERS'    DAY.1 

A    LMIGHTY  God  !  to  thee  we  raise 
-^— *-     Our  hymn  of  thankfulness  and  praise, 
Within  the  hollow  of  whose  hand 
The  Pilgrim  sought  his  promised  land  ! 

1  For  the  celebration  of  1SS2. 


Forefathers1  Day.  185 

Not  the. rich  pastures  of  the  vine, 
Flowing  with  honey,  milk,  and  wine, 
But  bleak  shores  sought  by  storm  and  sea, 
Their  rude,  sole  welcome —  Thou  art  free! 

With  corn  he  wooed  the  sullen  soil, 
But  more  with  learning,  home,  and  toil ; 
Till  now  no  vineyard  of  the  sun 
Blooms  like  the  wilderness  he  won. 

Inspired  by  faith,  in  purpose  great, 
He  steadfast  set  his  Church  and  State, 
Made  them  to  stand  'gainst  flood  and  shock, 
For  both  he  built  upon  the  rock. 

One  taught  —  to  God  and  conscience  true  — 
More  light  to  seek  the  right  to  do  ; 
The  other  broadened  to  the  span 
Of  man's  equality  with  man. 

Children  of  fathers  such  as  he, 

Be  ours  the  true  nobility  ! 

Lords  of  the  realm,  they  served  its  growth  ; 

To  serve  be  still  the  freeman's  oath. 

■ —  John  D.  Long. 


186  /Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


HYMN   FOR   21    DECEMBER,    1870. 

/~1  REAT  God    of    all !    in    bumble,    grateful 
^-^  prayer 

We  come  before  thee  now  on  bended  knee, 
And  thank  thee  that  thou  didst  our  fathers  spare 
From  the  wild  dangers  of  a  wintry  sea. 

We  thank  thee  that,  when  dangers  greater  far 
Encompassed  them,   that  brave   hearts   might 
appall, 
Thou  didst  support  them,  and  didst  let  the  star 
Of  hope  shine  on  their  hearts  and  strengthen 
all. 

And  we,  their  children,  on  this  joyous  day, 
No  longer  peril-driven  or  tempest-tossed, 

Approach  thy  throne  in  thankfulness,  and  pray 
Our  fathers'  bright  examples  be  not  lost. 

May  we,  like  them,   have   strength  and  courage 
given, 
Bear  bravely  up  e'en  though  we  feel  the  rod  ; 
Know  that  a  life  wed  spent  leads  on  to  heaven, 
And  duties'  paths  are  but  the  paths  to  God. 

—  Nathaniel  Spooner. 


Hymn.  187 

HYMN.1 

npO  Thee,  O  God  !  whose  guiding  hand 
-*~      Our  fathers  led  across  the  sea, 
And  brought  them  to  this  barren  shore, 
Where  they  might  freely  worship  thee  ; 

To  thee,  O  God !  whose  arm  sustained 
Their  footsteps  in  this  desert  land, 

Where  sickness  lurked  and  death  assailed, 
And  foes  beset  on  every  hand  ; 

To  thee,  O  God  !  we  lift  our  eyes  ; 

To  thee  our  grateful  voices  raise, 
And,  kneeling  at  thy  gracious  throne, 

Devoutly  join  in  hymns  of  praise. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  incline  thine  ear, 
And  listen  to  our  heartfelt  prayer  ; 

Surround  us  with  thy  heavenly  grace, 
And  guard  us  with  thy  constant  care. 

Our  fathers'  God  !  in  thee  we  '11  trust ; 

Sheltered  by  thee  from  every  harm, 
We  'U  follow  where  thy  hand  shall  guide, 

And  lean  on  thv  sustaining  arm. 

—  William  T.  Davis. 

1  Sung  at  Plymouth  at  the  250th  anniversary,  21  December, 
1S70. 


188  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


DEDICATION  OF  HITCHCOCK   LIBRARY. 

(December  21,  1874.) 

m 

i. 

f~^\  OD  of  our  Pilgrim  sires,  to  thee 
*-*      All  might  and  majesty  belong  ; 
Before  thy  face  we  bow  the  knee, 
And  lift  aloud  our  grateful  song. 

By  thy  strong  arm  the  Pilgrim  band 
Were  kept  in  all  their  stormy  way 

Until  they  trod  this  goodly  land 
And  gave  to  us  this  happy  day. 

We  bring  our  gift  before  thy  throne, 

This  labor  which  our  hands  have  wrought, 

And  consecrate  to  thee  alone 

This  treasure-house  of  sacred  thought. 

Choicer  than  gold  though  thrice  refined, 
Or  all  the  gems  that  ocean  rolls, 

Are  these  fair  riches  of  the  mind, 
This  garnered  wealth  of  holy  souls. 

God  of  our  sires,  still  let  that  grace, 

That  strength,  which  made  the  fathers  bold 

Descend  upon  the  Pilgrim  race, 
As  coming  years  shall  be  unrolled. 


Dedication  of  Hitchcock  Library.  189 


ii. 

We  sing  our  gladsome  hymn  of  praise, 

And  bless  our  fathers'  God, 
TThile  we  recount  the  former  days, 

And  trace  the  pathway  trod. 

How  many  hearts  this  hope  has  filled, 

The  living  and  the  dead  ! 
How  many  hands  have  wrought  to  build 

This  temple  where  we  tread  ! 

But  one  our  warmest  praise  demands, 

His  gift  we  here  recall, 
By  whom  this  finished  structure  stands, 

Whose  name  adorns  our  hall. 

He  gave,  and  passed  from  earth  away 

To  his  unseen  employ 
E'er  he  could  see  this  crowning  day, 

Or  share  our  festive  joy. 

But  here,  embalmed,  his  gift  shall  last, 

His  substance  shall  endure  ; 

And  as  the  rolling  years  go  past, 

His  heritage  is  sure. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


190  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 


THE   BOYS'   REDOUBT. 

(October,  1775.) 

|~N  continental  buff-ancl-blue, 
-^     AYith  lappets  richly  lacecl, 
Beneath  the  shade  the  elm-trees  made, 
A  martial  figure  paced. 

Along  the  sluggish  Charles's  banks 

He  bent  at  length  his  way, 
Just  as  the  gun,  at  set  of  sun, 

Went  booming  o'er  the  bay. 

His  soul  was  racked  with  doubt  and  strife, 
Despondence  gloomed  his  eye  ; 

He  needs  must  bear  his  weight  of  care 
Out  to  the  open  sky. 

The  breeze  that  flapped  his  soldier's  cloak, 

The  woods  so  broad  and  dim, 
The  tides  whose  sway  no  bonds  could  stay, 

All  seemed  so  free  to  him  ! 

Yet  the  young  nation  that  had  wrung, 

Beyond  the  angry  seas, 
From  savage  grace  a  refuge-place 

To  pray  as  they  might  please, 


The  Boys'  Redoubt.  191 

Must  it  be  hounded  from  its  haunts? 

Be  fettered  at  the  stake  ? 
Be  forced  again  to  wear  the  chain 

It  risked  its  all  to  break  ? 

His  step  grew  heavier  with  the  thought, 

His  lips  less  firm  were  set ; 
It  could  not  be  that  such  as  he 

Must  yield  !  and  yet  —  and  yet  — 

How  could  they  even  hope  to  win 
A  sino-le  fio-ht  in  lack 

Of  every  thing,  while  England's  king- 
Had  Europe  at  his  back  ? 

Thus  musing  sad  beside  the  Charles, 

He  saw  the  Cambridge  boys, 
An  eager  band,  pile  up  the  sand 

With  roar  of  riot  noise. 

"  Ha  !  lads,  what  do  you  here?  "  he  said, 

Arrested  by  their  shout. 
tb  What  do  we  here?  why,  give  us  cheer ; 

We  're  building  a  redoubt ! 

"  Who  knows  how  soon  Lord  Howe  may  come, 

And  all  his  lion  cubs, 
With  growls  and  snarls,  straight  up  the  Charles, 

In  his  old  British  tubs  ? 


192  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

"  And  creeping  from  them  in  the  dark, 
As  quiet  as  a  mouse, 
Now  what  if  they  should  snatch  away, 
Right  out  of  Vassal  House 

l-  Our  new-made  chief,  before  a  man 
Has  leave  to  fire  a  gun? 
That  ends  it !  for  there  '11  be  no  war 
Without  a  Washington ! 

'*  Our  fathers'  hands  are  filled  with  work  ; 
Besides,  they  're  grieving  still 
For  Warren  and  the  gallant  band 
That  fell  at  Bunker  Hill. 

"  So  we  will  help  them  as  we  can  ; 
You  wear  the  buff-and-blue  ; 
Yet  we  aver  that  we  're  ready,  sir. 
To  fight  as  well  as  you. 

"  May  be  you  're  on  the  general's  staff ; 
Then  say  we  Cambridge  boys 
Will  yell  and  shout  from  our  redoubt 
With  such  a  savage  noise 

*"'  That  all  the  vessels  in  the  bay 
Will  hear  the  wild  uproar 
And  swear  again  that  Prescott's  men 
Are  lining  all  the  shore  !  " 


Forefathers'  Day.  193 

"  Brave  lads  !  "  the  soldier  said,  and  raised 

The  cap  that  hid  his  brow  ; 
"  Some  day,  some  day,  I  '11  surely  pay 

The  debt  I  owe  you  now  ! 

"  Your  high,  heroic,  mettled  hearts, 
Your  faith  that  wavers  not, 
To  me  are  more  than  cannon's  store, 
Or  tons  of  shell  and  shot. 

u  What  people  ever  fails  to  gain 
The  patriot's  dearest  prize, 
When  '  die  or  win  -  is  blazing  in 
The  very  children's  eyes? 

'  -  No  need  to  bear  the  general  word 
Of  tasks  so  rich  in  cheer  ; 
He  makes  his  due  salute  to  you  — 
You  see  the  General  here  !  " 

—  Margaret  J.  Preston. 


FOREFATHERS'   DAY. 

/^~\N  this  low  rock  beside  the  bay, 

With  lonely  woods  and  waters  round, 
The  steps  once  heard  at  break  of  da}T 
Fill  every  village  with  their  sound. 


194  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Again  we  tell  how  great  the  deed 

Of  those  who  here  their  journey  stayed, 

And,  building  cabins  for  their  need, 
Foundations  of  an  empire  laid. 

We  see  again,  to  these  wild  shores, 
Their  vessel  sail  the  path  of  light, 

And  hail  the  morning's  golden  floors 
Above  the  winter  and  the  night. 

In  God  their  dwelling-place  they  made  ; 

They  toiled  supremely  him  to  please  ; 
So,  ever  in  their  toil  they  prayed, 

And  built  this  nation  on  their  knees. 

—  Albert  Bryant. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   FOREFATHERS'    DAY. 

FAITH    ROBINSON. 

r~PHEY    called  her  Faith,   this   winsome   babv 
-L     girl, 

With  soft  blue  eyes  and  cheek  of  rose  and  pearl, 
Born  in  old  Holland,  where  the  Pilgrims  stayed 
Until  the  Mayflower  frail  her  anchor  weighed 
For  the  strange  country  far  across  the  sea, 
Where   faith   in   God   taught   them    their   home 
should  be. 


The  Spirit  of  Forefathers''  Day.  195 

u  Faith  is  a  comfort,  both  in  word  and  deed, 
A  gift  from  heaven  ;  "  in  this  they  all  agreed. 
"  Whether  on  sea  or  land,  she  has  the  grace 
Of  golden  sunshine  in  a  gloomy  place." 

The  years  flew  by,  and  Faith  grew  brave  and  tall, 
A  comfort  still  was  this  sweet  maid  to  all. 
Whate'er  perplexed  them  she  was  wont  to  say  : 
"  The  Bible  tells  us  in  such  times  to  pray." 

One  year  no  rain  fell.     All  the  fields  were  dry. 
k<  The  corn  and  grass  and  sheep  will  surely  die, 
And  when  the  winter  comes,  ah,  sorry  day  !  " 
"  Why,  grandsire  dear,  the  people  all  must  pray. 

"  I  '11  call  them  now,  from  house  to  house  I  '11  go  ; 
They  '11  come,  I'm  sure,  if  we  but  let  them  know 
At  four  o'clock,  on  Deacon  Fuller's  hill, 
We  '11  pray  for  rain  enough  to  turn  the  mill ; 
For  some  there  are  now  almost  out  of  bread." 
These  were  the  words  the  little  maiden  said. 

The  people  came  ;  the  sky  was  hot  and  clear, 
No  breath  of  rain  nor  sign  of  cloud  was  near ; 
They  climbed  the  hill  with  faces  worn  and  sad : 
Faith  followed  singing  like  a  birdling  glad. 
To  her  granddame  and  mother  straight  she  came. 


196  Sonys  of  the  Pilgrims. 

UI  went,"   said  she,   ''to  fetch  these  for    the 

rain,"  — 
She  'd  brought  a  cloak,   and  blankets  two  had 

she,  — 
"These  are  for  you,  the  cloak  will  cover  me." 

"  Faith  is  a  comfort !  "  all  the  women  said. 

"  Such  faith!"  the  elder  sighed  and  bowed  his 

head. 
The  people  lingered  long  upon  their  knees 
With  prayers  and  sobs.    A  shiver  stirred  the  trees, 
The  air  grew  cool,  the  sun  was  clouded  in. 
"  The  want  of  faith  in  us  is  deadly  sin," 
The  deacon  said.     "  Let  us  not  err  again  !  " 
Then  patter,  patter  came  the  welcome  rain. 

That  was  the  spirit  of  Forefathers'  Day. 

"  Give  it  to  us,"  let  all  the  children  pray ; 

"  Lord,    give   us    faith    and   keep    us    pure    and 

strong, 
Help  us  to  serve  the  right,  to  right  the  wrong. 
Oh,  make  us  worthy  of  those  Pilgrim  sires 
Who  prayed  for  us  about  their  first  camp-fires, 
While  wintry  skies  bent  o'er  them  cold  and  gray." 
In  faith   they  prayed  —  that  made  Forefathers' 

Day. 

—  Annie  A.  Preston. 


Oar  Father^.  197 


OUR   FATHERS. 

"TTTE  own  that  guiding  hand. 

*  ^        Which,  in  the  years  of  old, 
Led  to  this  chosen  land 

Our  fathers,  firm  and  bold, 
Brought  them  across  the  stormy  sea, 
To  build  this  empire  of  the  free. 

They  came  with  faith  in  God. 

They  came  with  faith  in  man ; 
On  this  fresh  virgin  sod 
To  try  their  untried  plan  ; 
To  give  this  realm  of  freedom  birth 
And  shed  new  light  around  the  earth. 

Soon  as  our  godly  sires 

These  new-found  shores  had  trod, 
They  lit  their  altar-fires 

And  claimed  the  land  for  God  ; 
They  filled  the  forest  shades  with  light, 
And  turned  to  day  the  savage  night. 

—  Increase  Ax.  Tarbox. 


198  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

FOREFATHERS'   DAY,    1883. 

THE    EVERLASTING    REMEMBRANCE. 

"TTTHY  die  ye  not?     Ye  men  of  God, 

*  '        Ye  women  saintly,  who  beside 
Husband  and  brother  fearless  trod 
Where  Plymouth  Rock  the  sea  defied  ! 
Where'er  I  turn  my  eyes,  behold 
Change  ruleth  all  things  ;  dull  decay 
Treads  on  the  heels  of  life  ;  and  cold 
In  the  still  tomb  forever  laid, 
The  best  and  loveliest  of  to-day. 
The  noblest  in  God's  image  made, 
To-morrow  straight  have  passed  away  ! 
Where  Art  has  reared  her  massive  towers 
Storied  with  names  renowned  of  yore, 
Crumbled  by  Time's  slow-wasting  powers, 
Lie  heaps  of  moss-grown  ruins  hoar ; 
And  Thebes  and  Athens  all  too  well 
The  tale  of  perished  grandeurs  tell. 
Warriors  of  might  and  monarchs  proud, 
Before  whom  trembling  nations  bowed, 
Whose  dust  grand  mausoleums  keep, 
In  dark  oblivion  silent  sleep, 
Yet  live  ye  on  ;  your  praises  found 
On  reverent  lips  the  wrorld  around. 


Forefathers'  Day,  1883.  199 

So,  as  in  thoughtful  mood  I  stood 
"Where  Burial  Hill  o'erlooks  the  tide, 
Came  visions  of  the  great  and  good 
"Who  bravely  lived  and  nobly  died  ; 
Who,  dauntless,  to  this  lonely  strand 
God's  holy  ark  of  freedom  bore  ; 
Self-exiled  from  that  motherland 
Whose  shores  their  eyes  should  greet  no  more, 
Firm  as  the  rock  on  which  they  trod, 
In  faith  sublime  and  purpose  high, 
For  unborn  ages  and  for  God, 
They  dared  to  suffer  and  to  die. 

Beneath  thy  turf,  O  sacred  hill, 
Their  canopy  the  changeful  sky, 
They  sleep  while  years  their  circuits  fill, 
And  the  slow  centuries  go  by  ; 
Nor  mind  they  wintry  tempests  more, 
Nor  heed  the  angry  ocean's  roar  ; 
But  ever  o'er  that  peaceful  sleep 
Their  faithful  watch  the  angels  keep. 

Illustrious  band  !  whose  future  then 
In  God's  deep  counsels  hidden  lay, 
Ye  faltered  not,  but  followed,  when 
Through  deepest  darkness  led  the  way  i 


200  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

A  way  of  anguish  though  it  seemed, 

Yet,  heaven  inspired,  ye  hoped  ;  and  dreamed 

That  on,  beyond  that  dismal  gloom, 

Should  rise  at  last  a  joyous  morn, 

When  the  waste  wilderness  should  bloom, 

And  children's  children,  freemen  born, 

Should  throng  in  countless  millions  o"'er 

The  vast  expanse  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

When,  for  the  savage  yell  and  knife, 

Should  come  just  laws  and  cultured  life  ; 

And  cities  rise  with  spire  and  dome, 

The  marts  of  commerce  and  the  home 

Of  men  whom  loftiest  thoughts  inspire, 

Born  of  religion's  heavenly  fire  ; 

Where  none  would  quench  the  sacred  flame 

Of  freedom,  none  consent  to  bear, 

On  mind  or  hand  enchained,  the  shame 

Which  only  the  debased  can  wear. 

Oh  !  if  from  these  calm  skies  to-day, 
The  mighty  voice  of  God  should  say  :  , 
"  Ye  sleepers,  wake  !     To  life  arise, 
Ye  great  in  soul !     Ye  nobly  good  ! 
Stand  up  as  when  of  old  ye  stood, 
And  with  clear  vision  lift  your  eves  !  " 


Forefathers'  Day,  1S83.  201 

As  ye  again  to  life  should  start, 

The  same  in  mind,  in  thought,  in  heart, 

As  when,  o'erborne  with  ills,  ye  gave 

Your  wasted  bodies  to  the  grave  ; 

Ah  !  on  those  eyes  at  once  awake 

From  death's  long  sleep,  what  wonders  break  !" 

Behold  what  then  ye  dreamed  !     Ye  wept 

Willi  sickness,  care  and  sorrow  worn, 

With  hopes  and  fears  alternate  torn. 

As  near  yon  Rock  your  watch  ye  kept. 

To-day,  as  here  ye  stand,  once  more 

Before  you  the  same  surf-beat  shore, 

A:>ove  you  the  same  heavens  and  sun 

Which  saw  your  glorious  work  begun  ; 

Ye  look,  —  O  bliss  without  alloy,  — 

Ye  weep  again,  but  now  for  joy  ! 

The  griefs  that  in  your  Pilgrim  years 
Wrung  from  the  bravest  many  a  sigh  ; 
That  wet  uplifted  eyes  with  tears, 
When  none  could  help  save  God  on  high, 
Seem  troubled  visions  of  the  night 
That  vanished  with  the  morning  light. 
Beyond  your  dreams,  your  hopes,  your  thought, 
Lo  !  what  God's  faithful  love  hath  wrought ! 


202  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Before  your  raptured  eyes  ye  see 
A  refuge  for  the  world's  opprest ; 
A  i)o!)le  empire  strong  and  free, 
Where  the  poor  exile  finds  his  rest ; 
Land  of  all  lands  most  richly  blest ! 

Ye  can  not  die  !     Around  your  names 
The  splendor  of  true  glory  flames  ; 
That  glory,  matchless  and  sublime, 
Not  bought  with  blood,  not  stained  with  crime, 
O'er  the  wide  world  its  radiance  throws, 
And,  all  undimmcd  by  change  or  time, 
On  through  the  ages  brighter  glows  ! 
As  from  fresh  beds  of  flowers  at  morn 
Perfumes  are  breathed  that  fill  the  air  ; 
That  on  the  genial  breezes  borne, 
Bear  grateful  sweetness  every-where, 
So  from  this  soil  ye  wet  with  tears, 
Where  wrestled  faith  through  lingering  years, 
Forces  divine  have  silent  sprung, 
Whose  influence,  like  sweet  odors  flumz; 
O'er  distant  realms,  hath  kindly  wrought, 
Hath  quickened  life  and  hope  and  thought, 
Made  glad  humanity,  and  broke 
Cold  tyranny's  dread,  hateful  yoke, 


Forefathers'  Day.  203 

With  truths  by  God's  own  wisdom  taught. 

Goodness  and  truth,  with  God  allied, 

As  his  eternal  throne  abide  ! 

The  glory  won  by  guilt  shall  fade  ; 

Its  proud  memorials  turn  to  dust ; 

But  fresh,  immortal,  undecayed, 

Shall  live  the  glory  of  the  just ! 

—  Hay  Palmer. 


o 


FOREFATHERS'   DAY. 

PORTUGUESE    HYMN. 

H,  strong  is  our  God  in   the    might   of   his 
sway, 

He  speaks,  and  the  seas  and  the  tempests  obey  ; 
He  guides  the  frail  bark  on  its  perilous  path, 
And  holds  back  the  surges  that  break  in    their 
wrath. 

Oh,   strong  is    our   God,    for   he    casteth   down 

kings, 
But   broods   o'er    the    humble    with    sheltering 

wings  ; 
He   shames    and    dishonors    the    pride    of    the 

throne, 
But  lifts  up  the  lowly  and  makes  them  his  own. 


204  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Oh,  strong  is  our  God,  for  this  realm  of  the  west 
He  guarded  and  kept  for  a  refuge  and  rest, 
lie  gave  to  our  fathers  these  fountains  and  rills, 
The  wealth  of  the  valleys  and  strength  of   the 
hills. 

Oh,   strong   is   our   God,    and    what    song    shall 

unfold 
The  wonders  he  wrought  for  our  fathers  of  old  ? 
Through  sorrow  and  gladness,  in  sunshine   and 

storm, 
Their  faith  still  beheld  his  invisible  form. 

Oh,    strong    is    our    God,    and   the    nations    are 

strong 
That  bow  in  his  temples  with  worship  and  song  ; 
The  fear  of  the  Lord  is  the  strength  of  the  state, 
And  blest  are  the  men  at  his  altars  who  wait. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


THE   PILGRIM   FOREFATHERS. 

'^VTEATH  hoary  moss  on  crumbling  stones 
-^       Their  names  are  fading  day  by  day  ; 
The  fashions  of  their  lives  and  speech 
From  sight  and  sound  have  passed  away. 


The  Pilgrim  Forefathers.  205 

The  shores  they  found  so  bleak,  so  bare, 
Shine  now  with  riches  gay  and  proud  ; 

And  we,  light-hearted,  dance  on  ground 
Where  they  in  anguish  wept  and  bowed. 

Unto  the  faith  they  bought  so  dear, 
We  pay  each  day  less  reverent  heed  ; 

And  boast,  perhaps,  that  we. outgrow 

The  narrowness  which  marked  their  creed. 

A  shallow  boast  of  thankless  hearts, 

In  evil  generation  born  ; 
By  side  of  those  old  Pilgrim  men 

The  ages  shall  hold  us  in  scorn. 

Find  me  the  men  on  earth  who  care 
Enough  for  faith  or  creed  to-da}T, 

To  seek  a  barren  wilderness 
For  simple  liberty  to  pray  ; 

Men  who  for  simple  sake  of^  God 

All  titles,  riches,  would  refuse, 
And  in  their  stead,  disgrace  and  shame 

And  bitter  poverty  would  choose. 

We  find  them  not.     Alas  !  the  age, 
In  all  its  light,  hath  blinder  grown  ; 

In  all  its  plenty,  starves  because 
It  seeks  to  live  by  bread  alone. 


206  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

We  owe  them  all  we  have  of  good : 
Our  sunny  skies,  our  fertile  fields ; 

Our  freedom,  which  to  all  oppressed 
A  continent  of  refuse  yields. 

And  what  we  have  of  ill,  of  shame, 
Our  broken  word,  our  greed  for  gold, 

Our  reckless  schemes  and  treacheries, 

In  which  men's  souls  are  bought  and  sold, — 

All  these  have  come  because  we  left 
The  paths  that  these  forefathers  trod  ; 

The  simple,  single-hearted  ways 

In  which  they  feared  and  worshiped  God. 

Despise  their  name  and  creed  who  will ! 

Pity  their  poverty  who  dare  ! 
Their  lives  knew  joys,  their  lives  wore  crowns 

We  do  not  know,  we  can  not  wear. 

And  if  so  be  that  it  is  saved, 

Our  poor  republic,  stained  and  bruised, 
'Ticill  be  because  we  lay  again 

Their  corner-stones  which  ice  refused. 

—  H.  H. 


December  21st,  1620-1870.  207 


DECEMBER   21st,  1620-1870= 

~V7"E  children  of  New  England, 
-*-       Wherever  ye  may  be, 
Whether  ye  keep  the  ancient  homes 

Down  by  the  ancient  sea  ; 
Treading  the  rocky  pathways 

Your  fathers  trod  before, 
Hearing  the  wild  Atlantic  break 

Along  her  stormy  shore  ; 
Or  if  afar  ye  wander 

O'er  the  prairies  of  the  west, 
Or  down  the  wide  Pacific  slopes, 

Your  weary  footsteps  rest : 

Come,  listen  to  my  story, 

The  grand  ancestral  lay, 
Which,  as  the  world  grows  older, 

Grows  newer  every  day  ; 
Which  touches  men  with  pity, 

And  touches  men  with  pride, 
In  the  memory  of  those  noble  souls, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died. 


208  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

This  is  no  play  of  fancy 

To  catch  a  listless  ear  ; 
No  strange  and  shadowy  legend 

For  idle  minds  to  hear  ; 
No  tale  of  love  and  sorrow 

To  rob  the  eye  of  sleep, 
O'er  which  pale  sickly  maidens 

May  weep  and  read  and  weep. 

'T  is  a  tale  of  faith  and  patience, 

And  a  tale  of  cruel  wrong, 
When  the  good  to  earth  were  trampled 

By  the  haughty  and  the  strong ; 
The  brave,  heroic  Pilgrims 

Could  find  no  place  of  rest 
Save  o'er  the  stormy  ocean, 

In  the  forests  of  the  west. 

Behold  these  storm-tost  Pilgrims 

On  a  rough  and  barren  shore  ; 
With  the  sounding  sea  behind  them, 

And  the  wilderness  before  ; 
Hungry  and  cold  they  house  them 

In  their  dwellings  rude  and  low, 
While  the  night  winds  howl  around  them 

With  their  drifting  clouds  of  snow. 


December  21st.  1620-1870.  209 

In  these  nights  of  care  aud  watching, 

Long  nights  noblest  with  sleep. 
What  strange,  fantastic  terrors 

Over  the  spirits  creep  ! 
Out  from  these  unknown  forests 

Come  stealing  on  the  ear. 
Weird  and  mysterious  voices, 

That  chill  the  soul  with  fear. 

Oh,  the  terrors  of  that  winter, 

"When  men  sickened  day  by  day. 
And  one  by  one,  as  weeks  rolled  on. 

They  dropped  and  passed  away  ! 
There  was  no  harsh  and  murmuring  voice, 

Xo  sad.  complaining  cry. 
But  silently  they  heard  the  call 

And  laid  them  down  to  die. 

Meekly  as  to  the  slaughter 

The  patient  lamb  is  led. 
Meekly  before  the  shearers 

As  the  sheep  bows  down  her  head, 
So  bowed  these  humble  Pilgrims 

Before  the  chastening  rod. 
And  opened  not  their  moutli  to  doubt 

The  goodness  of  their  God. 


210  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

Strong  men  and  gentle  women, 

The  maiden  in  her  bloom, 
The  little  child,  the  gray-haired  sire, 

Slept  in  their  hill-side  tomb  ; 
They  were  buried  there  in  darkness, 

And  the  living  smoothed  their  bed, 
That  the  fierce  savage  might  not  tell 

The  number  of  the  dead. 

And  when  the  genial  sun  came  back, 

And  these  dark  months  were  o'er, 
When  through  the  budding  forests 

The  soft  winds  blew  once  more, 
Half  of  their  number  could  not  feel 

Its  sweet  reviving  breath,  — 
They  slept  upon  the  burial  hill 

The  icy  sleep  of  death. 

But  these  days  of  fiery  trial, 

Of  scorn  and  hate,  are  o'er, 
And  now  these  grand  old  Pilgrim  sires 

Shall  live  to  die  no  more  ; 
Men  kindle  at  their  virtues, 

They  tell  with  swelling  pride 
The  story  of  those  men  of  old, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died. 


Elder  Faunce  at  Plymouth  Rock.         211 

And  as  the  years  roll  onward, 

Through  the  ages  yet  to  be, 
As  wider  grows  and  wider 

This  empire  of  the  free, 
Grander  shall  grow  the  story 

Of  those  men,  true  and  tried, 
Those  noble  and  heroic  souls, 

For  God  who  lived  and  died. 

—  Increase  N.  Tarbox. 


ELDER  FAUNCE   AT   PLYMOUTH   ROCK. 

A    N  old,  old  man  ! 
■**      His  hair  is  white  as  snow, 
His  feeble  footsteps  slow, 
And  the  light  of  his  eyes  grown  dim. 
An  old,  old  man  ! 
Yet  they  bow  with  reverence  low, 
With  respect  they  wait  on  him. 

They  gather  at  his  side, 
And  in  his  way  they  throng  : 
Greet  him  with  love  and  pride 
The  aged  and  the  young. 


212  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

And  the  children  leave  their  play 
As  he  passes  on  his  way, 
And  afar  off  they  follow 
This  old,  old  man. 

He  has  gone  down  to  the  rock, 

He  is  lying  by  the  shore  ; 

He  hath  silent  sate  him  down  ; 

And  the  young  man,  whose  strong  arm 

Hath  shielded  him  from  harm, 

Will  not  disturb  the  dream 

That  his  spirit  hovers  o'er  ; 

And  the  gathered  throng  beside  him 

Group  him  on  the  shore. 

Long  he  sits  in  silence, 

The  old,  old  man  ; 

While  the  waves  with  silvery  reach 

Go  curling  up  the  beach, 

Or  dash  against  the  rocks  in  spray  — 

The  huge  rocks  bedded  deep 

At  the  base  of  the  proud  steep, 

Where  the  green  ridge  of  Manomet 

Grandly  rises  far  away. 

All  the  air  is  still, 

And  every  distant  hill 

Its  summit  veils  in  soft,  misty  blue  ; 


Elder  Faunce  at  Plymouth  Rock.         213 

Across  the  wide-spread  bay, 

Five-and-twenty  miles  away, 

The  white  cliffs  of  Cape  Cod  hang  in  air, 

As  some  mysterious  hand, 

Or  enchanter's  lifted  wand, 

Had  suspended  them,  and  charmed  them  there ; 

And  o'er  all  the  waters  wide, 

And  the  hills  in  summer  pride, 

And  the  islands  in  the  bay  that  rise, 

And  over  Saquish  Head 

And  the  Gurnet's  breakers  dread, 

The  mild,  soft  sunlight  like  a  blessing  lies. 

The  old  man's  eyes  grow  bright 

With  the  light  of  by-gone  days ; 

His  voice  is  strong  and  clear, 

His  form  no  more  is  bowed, 

He  stands  erect  and  proud, 

And,  dashing  from  his  eye  the  indignant  tear, 

He  turns  him   to  the  crowd  that  wait  expectant 

near, 
And  reverent  on  him  gaze  ; 
For  they  know  that  he  has  walked 
In  all  the  Pilgrim  ways. 


214  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

"  Mark  it  well !  "  he  cries, 
"Mark  it  well! 

This  rock  on  which  we  stand  : 

For  here  the  honored  feet 

Of  our  fathers'  exiled  band 

Pressed  the  land ; 

And  not  the  wide,  wide  world, 

Not  either  hemisphere, 

Has  a  spot  in  its  domain 

To  freedom  half  so  dear  !  " 

—  Caroline  Frances  Orne. 


FIRST   LANDING   OF   THE   PILGRIMS. 

"^AYS  pass,  winds  veer,  and  favoring  skies 
-^     Change  like   the  face  of  fortune  ;  storms 
arise  ; 
Safely,  but  not  within  her  port  desired, 

The  good  ship  lies. 
Where  the  long  sandy  cape 

Bends  and  embraces  round, 
As  with  a  lover's  arm,  the  sheltered  sea, 

A  haven  she  hath  found 
From  adverse  sales  and  boisterous  billows  free. 


First  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims.  215 

Now  strike  your  sails, 
Ye  toil- worn  mariners,  and  take  your  rest 
Long  as  the  fierce  north-west 

In  that  wild  fit  prevails, 
Tossing  the  waves  uptorn  with  frantic  sway. 

Keep  ye  within  the  bay, 

Contented  to  delay 
Your  course  till  the  elemental  madness  cease, 
And  heaven  and  ocean  are  again  at  peace. 

How  gladly  there, 

Sick  of  the  uncomfortable  ocean, 
The  impatient  passengers  approach  the  shore  ; 

Escaping  from  the  sense  of  endless  motion, 
To  feel  firm  earth  beneath  their  feet  once  more, 
To  breathe  again  the  air 

With  taint  of  bilge  and  cordage  undefiled, 
And  drink  of  living  springs,  if  there  they  may, 
And  with  fresh  fruits  and  wholesome  food  repair 

Their  spirits,  weary  of  the  watery  way. 

And  oh  !    How  beautiful 
The  things  on  earth  appear 
To  eyes  that  far  and  near 
For  many  a  week  have  seen 
Only  the  circle  of  the  restless  sea  ! 


216  Songs  of  the  Pilgrims. 

With  what  a  fresh  delight 
They  gaze  again  on  fields  and  forests  green, 

Hovel,  or  whatsoe'er 
May  bear  the  trace  of  man's  industrious  hand  ! 

How  grateful  to  their  sight 

The  shore  of  shelving  sand, 
As  the  light  boat  moves  joyfully  to  land  ! 

"Woods  they  behold,  and  huts,  and  piles  of  wood, 

And  many  a  trace  of  toil, 
But  not  green  fields  or  pastures.     'Twas  a  land 

Of  pines  and  sand  ; 
Dark  pines  that  from  the  loose  and  sparkling  soil 

Rose  in  their  strength  aspiring  :  far  and  wide 

They  sent  their  searching  roots  on  every  side, 
And  thus,  by  depth  and  long  extension,  found 
Firm    hold    and   grasp    within    that   treacherous 

ground : 
So  had  they  risen  and  flourished,  till  the  earth, 

Unstable  as  its  neighboring  ocean  there, 

Like  an  unnatural  mother,  heaped  around 
Their  trunks  its  wavy  furrows  white  and  high, 
And  stifled  thus  the  living  things  it  bore. 

Half -buried  thus  they  stand, 

Their  summits  sere  and  dry, 


First  Landing  of  the  Pilgrims,  217 

Marking  like  monuments  the  funeral  mound; 

As  when  the  masts  of  some  tall  vessel  show 

Where,    on    the    fatal    shoals,    the    wreck    lies 

whelmed  below. 

— Robert  Southey. 


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